


No Retreat, Baby, No Surrender

by itsnotbleak



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsnotbleak/pseuds/itsnotbleak
Summary: "You think your old army buddy is working at Subway?”“Of course not,” said Steve, trying to sound like he thought the idea was ludicrous. “Bucky died in 1944. I just...” He didn’t know what to say, so he slapped on his best lonely soldier face and lied. “It’s just it’s nice to pretend for a bit, you know?”“No,” said Natasha. “It sounds deeply unhealthy, but you do you.”In which Steve finds a man that looks a lot like Bucky making sandwiches in a Brooklyn subway. Except Bucky died seventy years ago, and this guy shows no sign of remembering Steve.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhh my first foray both into Steve/Bucky and chaptered fics. Fear not, I've got most of the rest of this written already, so hopefully it shouldn't be too long between updates. I guess that's what they all say though...
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The irony of it all was that Steve had only ducked into Subway in attempt to _avoid_ his past. Usually he hated the place; the process confused him and he didn’t understand how the future had created something that was supposedly made fresh in front of you and yet somehow tasted exactly like it had been mass-produced in a lab.

Steve had spent the morning wandering around Brooklyn in a haze of nostalgia, mapping out his past in a place that had changed utterly and yet hardly at all. He was starving, but he knew if he went into a real deli he’d expect to see old Mr Nicolini behind the counter. He couldn’t cope with yet another thing that was close but not quite the way it should be. He needed something that would bring him back to the twenty-first century with a bump, and well, Subway was better than Mcdonald’s.

He squinted up at the menu. “Uh, I’ll have a sub of the day please? On… wheat?”

“You got it pal,” said the man behind the counter, and Steve had been hearing Brooklyn accents all morning, but that was a voice that made Steve snap to attention. His eyes darted towards the man slicing open bread for Steve’s sandwich.

It was Bucky.

It _couldn’t_ be Bucky. Bucky was dead, Steve reminded himself. Bucky died seventy years ago.

He blinked. It was still Bucky.

“What cheese would ya like?” said Bucky.

“Cheddar,” said Steve, voice slightly strangled.

Bucky nodded, calmly peeling apart triangles of cheese with his plastic gloved hands. Steve stared.

Sam was always telling him that a certain degree of not-okayness was to be expected after spending the better part of a century on ice. He wasn’t sure if that included hallucinations in which his dead best friend was working in a chain sandwich store.

Bucky asked him next what kind of salad he wanted and Steve’s heart stuttered uncontrollably at the sound of his voice. Except it _couldn’t_ be his voice.

Steve was pretty sure he was cracking up.

He managed to hold it together enough for Bucky ( _not_ Bucky) to finish putting together his sandwich, and then he threw down some money and got the hell out of there.

He ran until his legs threatened to give way, and he collapsed against a brick wall. His lungs, which hadn’t failed him since 1941, were struggling to pull in air through thick, ragged breaths, and his heart was hammering.

It couldn’t be Bucky. It just couldn’t.

—

Steve went back the next day to check. He fully expected to find no one who looked anything like Bucky, or maybe someone who looked a little like Bucky when you squinted through seventy years of nostalgia. Instead, what he found was, well, Bucky.

Bucky, wearing plastic gloves and a visor embroidered with ‘eat fresh’ in green. Either Steve had forgotten what his best friend looked like, or he was having a minor mental breakdown.

Unsure what else to do, he ordered another sandwich. This time he played it cool, and only slightly stammered over his order. He kept it together just enough to notice that the man who looked like Bucky had long hair pulled back into a bun, and a nametag that said ‘Jimmy’.

Steve retreated with his sandwich to a tactical position in the corner of the store, where he could keep watching ‘Jimmy’ while he ate. He considered the possibilities.

The first option, and perhaps the most likely, was that Steve was hallucinating, that the man that looked like Bucky was nothing more than a figment of Steve’s imagination. Sam was always telling him that if he didn’t start talking about his issues they’d manifest in increasingly unhealthy ways; was it possible he’d bottled up his grief so bad that his brain had simply willed an imaginary Bucky into being?

Steve frowned, staring at the man behind the counter. Long hair. Surely that was a weird detail for his head to add to a hallucination? He saw Bucky in his dreams, sometimes, good and bad. In the good dreams Bucky looked exactly as he had the day he’d shipped out, uniform pressed, hair neatly trimmed and slicked back. In the bad, well; Steve didn’t much like to dwell on those in the daylight, but he’d never dreamt up a Bucky with long hair before. He took a bite of his sandwich. Something didn’t add up.

What if it _was_ Bucky? Steve tried to fight a rising giddiness at the thought — Bucky alive and well, his best pal, here, in the twenty-first century where Steve was so alone.

No — Steve had seen Bucky fall, there was no way he could have lived through that. But then, he thought, clinging desperately to the whisper of hope — but then, Steve was alive, and he wasn’t supposed to have survived his thirtieth birthday, let alone seventy years in the arctic. Maybe Bucky had survived the unsurvivable too.

Steve swallowed, bread forming a lump in his throat as he realised the true implications of that possibility. He’d never gone back to look for Bucky; there hadn’t been time. Howard had said that as soon it was all over he’d put together a team and go find him, and Steve had figured that would have to be enough. As much as Steve had hated the idea of leaving Bucky’s body at the bottom of a ravine, he’d never considered that Bucky might be actually alive. But if he _had_ been, if, somehow, he’d survived, then Steve had just left him there, cold and alone and almost certainly badly hurt. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

But even if Bucky had survived, it didn’t explain why he’d treated Steve like a total stranger. Or how he barely look a day older than he had last time Steve had seen him. Steve took another bite of his sandwich and chewed slowly, thinking it over.

Maybe Bucky had amnesia? There was no way he’d walked away from that fall without some injuries; maybe he’d hit his head. Steve squinted at Jimmy intently, as if he might spot some sign of seventy year old head trauma.

But then, Steve thought, it probably wasn’t Bucky at all. Maybe the guy was a relative, a grandson or something. Bucky had… well, Bucky had known a lot of dames back then. It wasn’t inconceivable that he’d got one of the them in the family way. Or it could be a trap, someone trying to trick Steve into thinking it was Bucky.

He finished his sandwich. Further reconnaissance was needed.

—

The next day, after their morning briefing, Natasha suggested they get sushi for lunch.

“I was going to get Subway, actually,” said Steve.  He was itching to get back to the store, but a bad lie was only guaranteed raise suspicion and have Natasha follow him wherever he went. This time though he thought the truth might just be unattractive enough to put her off.

He was right. "Subway?" she said, wrinkling her nose. “I show you all the best food the 21st century has to offer and you’re passing it up for limp lettuce and diet mayo?”

“I heard it’s uh, a healthier option?” said Steve.

“Oh so you’re watching your figure?” said Natasha, scathingly. “Not getting enough exercise these days?”

“I’m fascinated by modern nutrition,” said Steve, clutching at straws. “They’d only just started to figure out vitamins last time I was around.”

“Uhuh,” said Natasha. “Why are you really going to Subway?”

Steve sighed. There was a reason he usually avoided lying to Natasha. “There’s this guy who works there,” he admitted.

“A guy? You’re going to Subway every day to perve on a guy?”

Steve blushed beetroot red. “It’s not like that. He… he just looks a lot like someone I used to know.”

Natasha raised her eyebrows. “Who?”

Steve didn’t say anything. Natasha just stared at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Bucky,” Steve muttered.

“Bucky… as in James Buchanan Barnes? You think your old army buddy is working at Subway?”

“Of course not,” said Steve, trying to sound like he thought the idea was ludicrous. “Bucky died in 1944. I just...” He didn’t know what to say, so he slapped on his best lonely soldier face and lied. “It’s just it’s nice to pretend for a bit, you know?”

“No,” said Natasha. “It sounds deeply unhealthy, but you do you.”

Steve did. He went back to Subway every day that week. Each time he sat in the corner and ate his sandwich as slowly as possible, observing.

The man who called himself Jimmy was stocky, shoulders broader than Bucky’s had ever been.  He didn’t look a day over thirty, if that, while if Bucky was alive he’d be coming up on his 97th birthday. He had a prosthetic arm, Steve noticed, with a jolt of alarm – what had happened to his real one? – and Jimmy still didn’t seem to know Steve at all, not even the barest flicker of recognition.

But the more Steve watched him, the more sure he was that he was watching his best friend somehow brought back to life. Jimmy’s long hair was the exact shade of Bucky’s, as were his eyes. The charming smile he flashed at the customers was all Bucky. So was the bark of laughter he let out when his colleague said something funny. The set of his jaw, the cadence of his voice, the way he yawned and scratched his nose.

Three days in, Steve was ninety per cent certain Jimmy was Bucky. Not a hallucination, not someone who just looked like Bucky, but actually Bucky himself, alive and in the flesh. It was impossible, but then so was everything else Steve had lived through.

He kept going back to the store. He wasn’t sure what else to do. Jimmy still gave no sign that he recognized Steve, but every now and then Steve would catch Jimmy frowning at him. Should Steve approach him? Introduce himself? What would he _say_? You don’t remember me but I’ve known you since you were five, which by the way, was in 1922? Steve was filled with the same feeling of anxious confusion he always used to get when Bucky bullied him into approaching a girl; that uncertainty that thrummed through him, raising his heart rate and making his palms sweaty, leaving him an awkward, tongue-tied mess. Plenty had changed since then, but it appeared Steve still hadn’t mastered the art of forming coherent sentences, so instead he just stared at Jimmy over his sandwich.

He might have been a bit intense about it. Enough that on Friday, Jimmy slipped into the seat opposite Steve and said, “Listen, pal, if it’s Alicia you’re staring at, you’re shit out of luck. She’s engaged, and she doesn’t like stalkers.”

Steve blinked up at him, startled. A violent blush erupted on his face. “I’m not—”

“But if it’s me you’ve got your eye on,” Jimmy said, with a wink, “I get off at six.” He smirked and leaned closer. “You’ll find me in the bar down the road.”

Steve felt his cheeks flame even hotter, if that was possible. But he set his jaw, and said, “And you’re not worried about me being a stalker?”

“Nah,” said Jimmy. “I can look after myself.”

Steve stared at him. He was oozing smug satisfaction, just as obnoxiously attractive as ever. “All right,” Steve heard himself say. “Six it is. I’m Steve Rogers, by the way.” He held out his hand.

“I know who you are,” said Jimmy.

Steve’s heart soared. “Really?” he said.

“Of course,” said Jimmy. “I haven’t been living under a rock pal, I can recognize Captain America when he walks into my store.”

“Oh,” said Steve stupidly, trying to hide his sinking heart. “Of course.”

“I’m Jimmy Binns,” said Jimmy. He shook Steve’s hand. His was warm and solid. Real.

—

This wasn’t a _date_ , Steve reminded himself, as he arrived at the bar twenty minutes early. He and Bucky had never been on a date before, and they weren’t having their first one now, when Bucky had no idea who he was. If this was a date, Bucky wouldn’t take him to some dive bar a block down from his work. Steve flushed, remembering suddenly Bucky’s never-ending game of ‘if you were a dame, Rogers’:

_“If you were a dame, Rogers, I’d take you out to Coney Island,” Bucky said, wrapped around Steve in his tiny bed._

_“We went to Coney Island last month, Buck,” said Steve, mildly exasperated._

_“Yeah, but if you were my girl I wouldn’t make you ride the cyclone till you threw up,” Bucky said. “I’d take you on the Tunnel of Love, see if you let me fondle you in the dark.”_

_“You seem to be fondling me in the dark just fine without no Tunnel of Love.”_

_Bucky smirked and rolled himself on top of Steve. “If you were a dame, I’d take you dancing,” he said, face close._

_“I don’t wanna go dancing. I hate dancing.”_

_“You’re hard-hearted, Stevie,” said Bucky, with a pout._

_“Shut up, jerk,” Steve said, and kissed him._

But they weren’t going dancing, Steve thought, and he ordered himself a beer. This was a mission. He sat himself in the corner and thought about strategy. Uncover as much information as possible about Jimmy; that was his primary objective. Best achieved by continuing to treat Jimmy like someone he just met, not his long lost best friend. If Jimmy was Bucky then he clearly had no idea and Steve revealing his true identity would only startle and confuse him, or possibly just convince Jimmy that Steve was a senile old coot best avoided. If he wasn’t Bucky, then there was a high chance this was a trap of some kind.

Either way, Steve’s objectives would be best served by pretending not to recognize Jimmy, and simply trying to get to know him. If he could figure out who Jimmy thought he was, then maybe he could start to figure out how he’d survived. And then… Steve didn’t really know what his next move would be. What he _wanted_ to do was kidnap Jimmy, take him back to Avengers Tower and keep him there until he remembered his real identity, but Steve couldn’t do that because Steve believed in freedom and civil liberties. If he shows any signs of being in danger or unhappy, Steve promised himself. Otherwise, intelligence gathering only.

The anxious talking-to-girls feeling was back; this time made worse by an inexplicable fluttering in his belly. Just another mission, he told himself, as he nervously sipped his beer. Then he realized it was 6.02 and his beer was three-quarters empty, and it was obvious how embarrassingly early he’d arrived.

That was when Jimmy showed up. Steve, of course, panicked and knocked over his glass.

“Whoa, easy,” said Jimmy, quickly stepping in to help staunch the flow of lager with a wad of napkins. “Jesus, Steve, I hope you’re not that clumsy when you’re fighting aliens.”

Jimmy was wearing black jeans and a leather jacket, his long hair loose from the bun he kept it in at work. Steve thought wildly of Bucky’s best blue suit and the jar of brylcreem that had sat on their dresser. Jimmy looked every inch the twenty-first century man, but the result was just as devastatingly effective. Steve tore his eyes away from the denim hugging Jimmy’s thighs. “No?” he said, uncertainly.

Jimmy laughed. “Let me get you a new drink,” he said, and headed up to the bar.

Pull yourself together, Steve told himself. There was no reason for this to become the disaster that all Steve’s dates became, because this wasn’t a date.

Jimmy returned with their drinks, and Steve pasted on his best USO smile. “Thanks,” he said.

They sat opposite each other, and Steve couldn’t help but stare, studying Jimmy closely. He catalogued the dimple in Jimmy’s chin, the tiny chip in his front tooth that matched the one Bucky’d got when they were kids, yet again trying to finish a fight Steve had started. Did Bucky have a tiny brown mole halfway down his neck? Steve couldn’t remember, and it made him feel guilty.

He searched in vain for any sign of recognition in Jimmy’s eyes, but they just stared blankly back at him, with a small, slightly bemused smile.

“So, Jimmy,” Steve started, and then realized he didn’t know what to say to this man who wore Bucky’s face.  He had dozens of things to say to Bucky himself, things like ‘but you always hated being called Jimmy, Buck’, and ‘I thought there were supposed to be flying cars in the future’, and ‘five bucks for a beer, can you believe it?’ and, probably most of all, ‘fuck, I’ve missed you so much’. But none of that was in keeping with his mission strategy.

Desperately, his eyes locked onto the pool table down the far end of the bar. He gestured towards it. “You fancy a game?”

Jimmy blinked, a brief flicker of surprise on his face that quickly smoothed out again.  “Sure,” he said.

Steve headed over to the table, and tried to pick up pool cue like he considered it a useful tool and not what it was, which was a giant unwieldy stick. He was terrible at pool, always had been, much to Bucky’s disgust. Bucky had been formidable, but his attempts to turn Steve into a worthy opponent had always come to nothing.

Jimmy was setting up the balls with a deftness that seemed to indicate he wasn’t half bad either. “Wanna break?” he said to Steve.

“Er, you better do it,” said Steve.

“Okay,” Jimmy said, and shrugged off his jacket before picking out his own cue.

With his jacket off, his prosthetic arm was exposed. Now that Steve could see it up close, he realised it was beautiful; gleaming metal that moved just like a real one; sophisticated modern technology beyond even the science fiction Bucky used to read. Steve watched as Jimmy effortlessly took the shot. There was a satisfying crack and the balls scattered across the table, and Steve thought that if Jimmy had had to lose an arm, at least he’d ended up somewhere where he could get a decent replacement.

“So tell me about yourself, Jimmy,” Steve said, trying to sound casual. Just last week, Natasha had refused to let him tag along on an intel-gathering mission because he had “all the subtlety of a battering-ram, Jesus, Steve, no,” which Steve had thought at the time was rather unfair, but he had to admit now that he did sometimes struggle to play it cool.

“What, my whole life story?” said Jimmy.

Steve shrugged. “If you want.” He leant over to take a shot and didn’t hit anything, the cue ball sailing away, bouncing off the cushion and coming back to rest not three inches from where it started. He looked sheepishly at Jimmy, but Jimmy didn’t say anything, just watched with the hint of a smile on his face.

Jimmy lined up his own shot. “It’s not a very exciting story,” he said. “Grew up here in Brooklyn. No money.” The cue ball clinked into the purple, which fell neatly into the pocket. “Joined the army because I was sick of not knowing whether I’d make rent.” He took another perfect shot. “Lost an arm, came home. Eventually.” Another shot. This time he hit the ball a little too hard, and it bounced off the side instead of going in. There was a tiny frown between his eyes, and Steve was almost convinced Jimmy didn’t miss on purpose. Almost.

Bucky used to always cheat; miss a couple of shots he could have made or accidentally sink one of Steve’s in a blatant attempt to keep Steve from a truly embarrassing defeat. Steve had always thought it was pretty pointless, prolonging the inevitable, but right now he was grateful for anything that would drag out the game, give him more time to listen and watch.

“Prosthetics these days are pretty remarkable,” said Steve, watching the light glint on Jimmy’s metal arm. “I never would’ve thought something like that was possible.” He was desperate to know what had happened to the arm, but it felt rude to ask, and he didn’t want to do anything that might offend Jimmy. If he did, he might not get a second da—intel-gathering opportunity.

Jimmy snorted, but he didn’t say anything.

“Where did you serve? The Middle East?” Steve asked, pushing for more details.

“Nope,” said Jimmy, and it didn’t look like he was planning to elaborate.

Steve took his turn. This time not only did he not hit anything, but he managed to sink the white. He sighed.

“You’re pretty bad at this, huh?” said Jimmy, with a grin.

“I thought I might have improved some,” said Steve.

Jimmy just raised his eyebrows and then leant down to take yet another expert shot. He straightened up, yellow ball falling smoothly into the pocket. “So what’s your story, Steve?”

Steve frowned. Nobody bothered to ask him any more; they just assumed they already knew it all. “Feels like most people these days know the story of Captain America better than I do.”

Jimmy looked up from where he was considering his angles. “My history’s pretty bad. Besides,” he said, sending a ball ricocheting across the table. “I didn’t ask about Captain America.”

Steve watched as one of his own balls teetered slowly, and fell into the pocket. “Whoops,” said Jimmy.

Steve rolled his eyes. He gripped his cue and tried to think of a suitable answer to Jimmy’s question.

“Similar story as you I guess. Brooklyn. No money. Joined the army.” Steve frowned. “Except it wasn’t the money that made me sign up. Shoulda been, probably. We couldn’t pay our rent either, and y—my friend was working himself to the bone just trying to keep us both alive. But I just wanted to fight, you know? Do my bit.”

“Of course,” said Jimmy, watching Steve from across the table. His eyes glittered in the dimness of the bar. “Dulce et decorum est, right?”

“No,” said Steve. That always made him think of his father, gasping for air in a muddy trench. He shivered. “It wasn’t about honor, or glory, or even patriotism, really. I know there’s not much dignity in being cannon fodder, believe me. War’s always an ugly thing, but I didn’t really see what right I had to stay clear of it.” He hoped Bucky hadn’t thought he was that … righteous. “Besides,” he added. “Back then I never knew if I was going to make it through the winter. Doctor said I’d be lucky if I made it to thirty. Didn’t seem like that big a sacrifice, really.”

Steve took his turn, Jimmy watching him closely. “That what you thought when you crashed into the ice?” Jimmy said, as a ball moved idly across the table, heading nowhere.

Steve shrugged. “This has got a bit dark for a first date, hasn’t it?”

Jimmy kept his eyes on Steve for a moment, quiet. Then he raised his eyebrows. “That what this is?”

“You tell me, pal,” said Steve. “This whole thing was your idea.”

“After you spent all week staring at me.”

Steve felt his face flush. “Take your damn shot,” he said.

Jimmy took his shot. “So,” he said. “Somehow we both managed to survive a war. What do you do with yourself now?”

“Well,” said Steve. “I’m an Avenger?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you on the news. Haven’t you had enough of that by now? I know I’ve had enough to last a lifetime.”

“I like to be useful,” said Steve.

“Okay,” said Jimmy, rolling his eyes. “What do you do when you’re not looking for new opportunities to heroically die for the good of mankind? Got any hobbies?”

“Um,” said Steve. “Boxing? I train a lot.”

“Jesus Christ. So you wake up in the twenty-first century and you spend it in the gym.”

“Sometimes I train outside. I go for a run every morning.”

“That’s not better,” said Jimmy. “Did you at least try few modern forms of exercise? Go to a spin class? Pilates? Fuckin’ Zumba?”

“I don’t know what those things are,” said Steve. “I’ve got a punching bag. Several punching bags. I’m good.”

“You’re really not,” said Jimmy. “You should try yoga. Sort out your chakras.”

“What are chakras?”

“No idea. But I reckon you could do with finding out.”

Steve frowned at him. Then he grinned. “Are you offering to help?”

“What?”

“I’ve got a list,” said Steve, thinking fast. “Of things to catch up on. Music and films and things. It’s a bit overwhelming though.” He pulled his most wide-eyed, hopeless expression, the one that always made Bucky point his finger and say ‘that look ain’t fooling me, Stevie,’ before giving in and doing exactly what Steve wanted. “I think I just need someone to help guide me through it all, you know?” he said, with a small flutter of his eyelashes.

Jimmy stared at him, arms crossed. Steve’s heart raced. Perhaps the eyelash fluttering had been a bit much. But no; Jimmy was smiling now, his own eyes crinkling at the corners. “You really are something else, aren’t you?” he said. “Alright. I’ll be your twenty-first century guide.”

Then he leant down and sunk the black.

—

Steve was cautiously optimistic about how his plan was going. Sure, he hadn’t got a lot out of Jimmy at the bar, but this was a delicate operation. Like Natasha said, you couldn’t just go in guns blazing, you had to be patient. Play the long game. Besides, Steve knew from experience that punching things was a lot easier than getting Bucky to talk about something he didn’t want to. The fact that Jimmy hadn’t given up much really just made it more likely that it was Bucky hiding behind all that hair. Steve just needed to stick on him and eventually he’d figure it all out.

He’d forgotten to get Jimmy’s phone number on Friday night – forgotten that was even a thing that people had – so he went back into the store on Monday to ask for it. Alicia gave him a slightly alarmed look that confirmed she definitely thought Steve was veering into stalker territory, but Jimmy just smiled and programmed his number into the fancy phone Tony had given him. Steve waited all of six hours before using it to call him.

“Hey Steve,” Jimmy answered, before Steve could say anything.

“How did you know it was me?” said Steve, momentarily surprised.

“It’s the future, Steve,” said Jimmy. “I’ve got caller id.”

“Oh yeah,” said Steve. “Forgot about that.”

“Also, just so you know, nobody calls anybody these days.”

Steve frowned. “What’s the point of everyone carrying a phone around with them all the time if they don’t call people on them?”

“They text,” said Jimmy.

“Oh,” said Steve. “I’m not very good at that. I was never any good at typing.” Steve had once lied about having typing experience to get a job as a low-level clerk at Mr McLean’s accounting firm. He’d been sure it couldn’t be that hard, but the first letter he’d typed had been so full of mistakes he’d been sent packing straight away.

Jimmy laughed, and Steve wished there was a chance he was remembering the same thing. Bucky had given him so much shit for it at the time. “Leave the typing to the girls from Mrs Calliher’s Secretarial School, Stevie,” he’d said. “You might chip a nail.”

“I can hang up and text you instead,” Steve offered.

“Nah, you’re alright,” said Jimmy. “Just thought I better update you on twenty-first century etiquette for next time you get a guy’s number.”

“Thank you,” said Steve, “but I don’t really do this a lot.”

“You don’t say,” said Jimmy, dryly. “You call me for any particular reason?”

“Well,” said Steve, suddenly, inexplicably self-conscious. Just another mission, he reminded himself. “The other night you seemed to think I was missing out on a few of things this century has going for it. I thought I’d take you up on your offer to show me around.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then— “Okay,” Jimmy said. “But I’m not doing any fucking exercise. We can go see some art or something.”

“Art?”

“It’s been a while since I went to any of the galleries, and I’ve got a hankering to see some paintings. How about we go to the Met? Or MoMA?”

Whatever Steve had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. “MoMA,” he said, after a moment. “Most of the stuff at the Met’s older than I am.”

“Alright then,” said Jimmy. “MoMA it is. My next day off’s Thursday.”

—

Steve thought the Pollocks were a bit silly, but Jimmy liked them. He wanted to hate the Warhols, so bright and deliberately shallow, and, so he’d read, worth _so much money_ , but the solid shapes reminded him vaguely of the kind of work he used to do when he could get it, posters and print ads, and it was weirdly nice to see something like that on the walls of a museum. He lost Jimmy for a while and then found him, transfixed, in front of a Rothko. They both stared at it for ages, awed. “I don’t understand it, Stevie,” Jimmy said, “but it sure is fine,” and Steve was so lost in the painting that he almost missed that, _Stevie_ , a name he’d not been called for seventy years.

They tripped backwards through time, towards paintings Steve had seen before, even if only in books: Kandinskys, Matisses, Picasso’s endlessly deconstructed violins. He glared angrily at the Giacomo Balla as he passed, sighed disapprovingly at Gauguin’s Tahitian ladies, admired the Cezanne still lifes.

He stopped in front of ‘The Starry Night’, remembering the first time he saw it, way back in ’41. It had been Steve’s birthday and Bucky had dragged Steve into Manhattan to look at the art, much liked Jimmy’d done today. Then he’d spent the whole time complaining about how galleries made his feet hurt, and had found a bench to sit on while Steve poured over paintings. ‘The Starry Night’ was a new acquisition back then, and Steve had thought it was just about the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Steve had gotten as close as he dared and stared for ages at the thick swirls of paint.

Steve did the same thing now, feeling something stir in him that he hadn’t felt in a long while. That urge for a blank piece of paper, that itch to carve something new out of the page.

He looked around for Jimmy, finding him slumped on a bench in the corner, looking vaguely in need of a nap. The sight flooded Steve with surprising warmth, like somewhere deep inside him had stayed frozen and was only now, finally, starting to melt. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ve got some art supplies to buy.”

Jimmy opened his eyes and squinted up at Steve, smiling. “Sounds great, buddy.”

—

Steve spent at least an hour in the art store, trying out fancy marker pens and fondling brush tips. It was hard to reconcile the idea that he could buy any of it, if he wanted; he used to dream about being able to afford quality supplies like these. But in the end all he bought was a small sketchbook and a set of pencils.

He took them home to his apartment in Stark Tower and set himself up at the dining table he hardly used, facing the ridiculous floor to ceiling windows. He’d thought they were obscene when he’d first seen them; couldn’t think of anything but how much heat must disappear out all that glass in winter. Now though, he had to admit they let the light in beautifully. He flipped his sketchbook open to the first creamy white page, picked up his pencil, and started to draw the view.

He didn’t stop until he heard the elevator ding. “Honey, we’re home!” said Natasha, wandering into Steve’s kitchen, Sam trailing behind carrying pizza boxes. “And we bought takeout.”

Sam dumped the pizza on the other end of the table. “Are you just sitting in the dark?” he said, flicking on the light.

Steve blinked. He hadn’t noticed the light fading around him, too engrossed in his drawing to notice he’d been squinting just to see it. It had felt like no time at all since he’d sat down, but it must have been several hours.

“Did you forget we were coming?” said Natasha.

“No,” said Steve. “Sorry, I just lost track of time. I was drawing.”

“Hey, I didn't know you could draw like that,” said Sam, peering over his shoulder. “That's amazing.”

Steve shrugged. “It’s not my best,” he said, because there was no denying he was a bit rusty. “I used to do this for a living, before the war.”

“Really?” said Sam, surprised, and Steve smiled at the discovery of another thing they didn’t teach about him in schools.

“Yeah,” he said. “Nothing too fancy, just illustrations for ads, that kind of thing. Posters mostly, and flyers. I did a department store catalogue once, that was good money.”

“Oh wow,” said Sam, sounding genuinely impressed, and Steve felt a tiny flush of pride. He looked down, surveying his picture with a critical eye. It _wasn’t_ his best work, obviously, but it wasn’t bad either, considering.

“Hey mister artiste,” said Natasha from the kitchen. “You’ve got a text from a ‘Jimmy’.” She picked his phone up off the counter and lobbed it at him.

Steve caught it with only a minor fumble. “I didn’t hear it go off,” he said, annoyed. “Tony keeps changing my settings, he says it’s embarrassing for your phone to make noises. But how else are you supposed to know when someone’s trying to get hold of you?”

“Who’s Jimmy?” said Sam.

“You’re supposed to watch it constantly,” said Natasha. “Or that’s what Sam does, I’ve never been that desperate.”

“Rude,” said Sam. “Who’s Jimmy?”

“Yeah, Steve,” said Natasha. “Who’s Jimmy and why’s he trying to feed you up like a lost puppy?”

“He’s this guy I met,” said Steve, peering at his phone. _When was the last time you had a proper home cooked meal?_ Jimmy had sent.

“Is this the Subway guy you were stalking?”

“Steve was stalking someone on the subway?”

“Not on the subway,” corrected Steve, looking up from carefully typing ‘1942’. “He works at a Subway. You know, the sandwiches? And I wasn’t _stalking_ him.”

“It sounded like it to me,” said Natasha, but she didn’t mention the whole _Bucky_ thing, for which Steve was grateful.

“Wait,” said Sam. “Captain America’s got a crush?”

“It’s not like that,” said Steve, feeling distinctly hot under the collar. “Jimmy’s just… helping me take in a bit more of the twenty-first century, that’s all.”

“Riiight,” said Natasha.

“Is that why you’re so freakishly happy lately?” said Sam. “Because the last time we went this long between missions you went through every punch bag in Manhattan.”

“I did not,” said Steve.

“Yeah, you did,” said Sam.

“You did,” said Natasha. “But that’s okay. Tell us about Jimmy. Is he dreamy?”

Steve flushed again. He knew times were different, but the fact that Natasha and Sam were just gliding by the possibility of his queerness like it was no big deal was surreal. This whole conversation still made him deeply uncomfortable, obviously, but it wasn’t anywhere near as bad it would have been in 1943. “Well,” he said. “He’s from Brooklyn? He used to be a sniper in the army. You could say we’ve got shared life experiences, I guess.”

“What, we’re not enough?” said Sam. “How many ex-army buddies do you need?”

“You keep blushing,” said Natasha, grinning. “I think that means he _is_ dreamy.”

“Natasha,” admonished Sam. “You’re making him uncomfortable.”

“Dreamy is –” started Steve awkwardly. He swallowed. “Dreamy is not an inaccurate descriptor.” His face burnt redder than ever. It was a confirmation of sorts, confirmation of something he never thought he’d tell anyone. Something only Bucky had ever known.

Sam just smiled reassuringly at him. “Hey,” he said calmly. “That’s cool, Steve. Dreamy is good.”

“Text him back,” said Natasha. “Tell him you’d love to come to dinner.”

—

Steve took a gulp of wine and ran his eyes over the books on Jimmy’s bookshelf. Behind him, Jimmy was pottering in the kitchen, humming along to the music playing softly in the background, and it was so familiar it was surreal. The music was different, of course, nothing like the big swing bands of the 1940s, but it didn’t sound like it was being performed by robots either, like so much music did these days. Jimmy said that was because it was old, almost as old as Steve, but whatever it was, it had Jimmy swaying along, and Steve half-expected him to pull Steve in and twirl him round the way Bucky always used to do when he was waiting for the pot to boil.

But of course, Jimmy wasn’t going to do that, so Steve focused on the wine and the books and tried to ignore the way the past kept trying to bleed into the present. _I Robot_ , _The Idiot, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd_ , _The Hunger Games_ , _Slaughterhouse-Five_ : Steve didn’t recognize any of the titles. He did remember Bucky reading Agatha Christie before; he’d read _Murder on the Orient Express_ aloud to Steve one time when he was sick, and Steve had had weird fever dreams about death and trains and snow that now seemed uncomfortably prophetic. He ran his hand along the shelf, pausing at the last book, which looked well read, the spine cracked and peeling. Steve slipped it out and flipped it open. _Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time_ , he read.

“Don’t think you’ll like that one much,” said Jimmy, watching him warily.

“Why not?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Just not your cup of tea, I guess. Take a seat, the food’s nearly ready.”

Reluctantly, Steve put the book back and moved towards the table. “You’ve got a lovely place here,” he said. It was true; Jimmy’s apartment was far nicer than anywhere Steve and Bucky had ever lived, and it had a warm, lived in feeling that Steve’s sterile rooms in Stark Tower always seemed to lack. He even had a cat, a wiry looking tortoiseshell who glared at Steve from the couch. Steve reached out to pet it as he passed.

“I wouldn’t do that,” warned Jimmy, but before Steve could withdraw his hand, the cat had attacked.

“Ouch,” said Steve, startled. Blood dripped from a nasty scratch across his knuckles.

“Oh jeez, I’m sorry,” said Jimmy, dumping an oven tray on the table and coming over to Steve. “She’s a real asshole. Are you alright? Do you need a band aid?”

Jimmy was hovering nervously next to him, trying to see how bad it was without actually reaching out and taking Steve’s hand. Steve wondered whether if he said yes, Jimmy would insist on cleaning the scratch himself, just like the old days. But he could already feel his super-healing starting to knit the wound back together, so, reluctantly, he shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“Okay,” said Jimmy. “Come eat.”

Steve sat down, staring in awe at the dish full of golden potatoes in front of him. He hadn’t had a good roast potato since Bucky’s mother was alive.

“There’s chicken too,” said Jimmy, presumably misinterpreting Steve’s expression as one of disappointment.

Steve shut his mouth quickly before he started drooling. “You could have served me nothing but roast potatoes and I would have been impressed,” he said. “Those would have counted as a feast on their own back in my day.”

“Ah yes. The depression,” said Jimmy. “Nothing but cabbage soup.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I was small enough back then cabbage soup was all I needed.”

Steve had been joking, but Jimmy shot him a look that was eerily similar to the one Bucky would give him when Steve would pretend he wasn’t hungry and try to push his food into Bucky’s bowl. His ‘Steve, quit telling me bullshit’ face. “Can’t say I miss it,” Steve admitted.

Jimmy placed a plate piled high with roast chicken and potatoes, gravy, and stuffing in front of Steve. “Do you miss any of it?” he said, topping up Steve’s wine glass.

“Any of what?” said Steve. He took a bite of potato. Sweet jesus, either Steve had forgotten how good Mrs Barnes’ potatoes were or these were somehow better, which was unbelievable.

“Before. The past. 1944.”

Steve swallowed his potato reluctantly. “I don’t really miss 1944. Too many Nazis. A lot of sleeping outside. And army rations were almost worse than the depression.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes from across the table. “Before you went to war then, dummy.”

Sam had asked him the same thing once, Steve remembered. Steve hadn’t really answered the question then, just deflected with a comment about polio and boiled food. He wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to say. Of course he missed his home. But it seemed silly to, in a way. There hadn’t exactly been anybody left waiting for him in Brooklyn in 1945, and in so many ways the world was better a place now. But that didn’t stop him feeling helplessly lost most of the time.

“I don’t miss the racism or the sexism or… what do you call it? Homophobia. We didn’t even have a word for that back then, it was so normal,” Steve said. “And the things technology can do for people – I mean, look at that arm of yours. That’s amazing. Nothing like that was available for any of the men I fought with.”

Jimmy stiffened almost imperceptibly at the mention of his arm, and Steve quickly changed tack. “I do feel a bit like an alien, sometimes. But then, I think I might have felt that way even if I had come home in 1945.”

Jimmy considered him for a minute, his face guarded in a way Bucky’s never was. Then he broke into a grin. “You saying you ain’t an alien? I don’t know who you think you’re fooling Steve, face like that.”

“Jerk,” said Steve. Then he took another bite of potatoes and just about moaned. “Tell you what pal, if I was feeling homesick these potatoes might just be the cure.”

Jimmy smiled smugly. “Old family recipe,” he said.

It was a nice dinner. Jimmy wasn’t Bucky, except for all the ways he was, but Steve couldn’t imagine a version of Bucky he didn’t get along with. He ate potato after potato and tried his best to get Jimmy to share something about his life, with limited success. Jimmy wanted to talk about Steve – how Steve was finding the twenty-first century, what being an Avenger was like, what the others were like.

“They’re good people,” Steve said. “I mean, they’re all … they’ve all got difficult stuff in their past, but they’re trying their best. They all seem to think I’m some kind of saint who’s going to be shocked by everything, though, which is … weird. The other day Clint apologised to me for cursing.”

Jimmy laughed. “What did you say?”

“Clint said ‘Sorry Cap,’ and I just said ‘you fucking better be’ and went back to eating my oatmeal. I’m not some fucking altar boy, I was in the goddamn army. Half my friends growing up had dads who worked on the docks and then they got jobs there themselves. They could all make swearing sound like poetry.” He sighed. “Things were different back then, sure. We all put on a hat before we went outside and we didn’t talk about sex in mixed company, but we were still human. We still sinned the same.”

“JFK was the first president to not wear a hat at his inauguration,” said Jimmy. “Didn’t wear one to his assassination neither.”

“How do you know that?”

“They’re both on youtube,” said Jimmy, taking a bite of potato.

Steve put down his fork with a clatter. “His _assassination_?”

Jimmy grinned. “So you can be shocked by the twenty-first century,” he said. Then he said, absentmindedly, “I used to be an altar boy.”

Bucky had too; it didn’t made him swear any less.

Steve didn’t get much out of Jimmy, but from the little bits he did drag out – the cozy apartment was inherited, apparently, although where from Jimmy didn’t say; the job at Subway wasn’t glamorous but it paid the bills and he liked his coworkers – Steve managed to glean a sense of a life that was, well, fine. Jimmy didn’t smile as often as Bucky, and when he did it didn’t always feel entirely real, didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was more guarded than Bucky, and more cynical. But he was also better fed than Bucky was, more comfortably housed. He didn’t have a sick friend hanging around like an anchor around his neck, and he was doing just fine.

Jimmy didn’t need Steve to rescue him. And Steve was pleased, he really was, but when Jimmy held out the wishbone from the chicken Steve tried and failed to not wish for Bucky back.

After dinner Jimmy pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and climbed out onto the fire escape. Steve followed him.

“They tell me those things can kill you these days,” he said.

“Yeah, I heard that,” said Jimmy, around the cigarette he was trying to light. Steve watched him, half-expecting to see him with Bucky’s old lighter, the one he’d plucked out of the hand of a dead German – there’d been a gaggle of them, lying in wait, but unfortunately for them, one had decided he needed one last smoke before facing off with Captain America. Bucky had seen the brief flicker of flame from five hundred yards away and shot him dead, Steve’s hero, and he’d picked up the lighter as a souvenir. But Jimmy’s lighter was dark blue plastic, the disposable kind you bought from a 7-eleven.

Steve studied the building across the street. It looked familiar. They all did. “You know, I used live about a block away from here,” he said.

Jimmy took a drag. “You don’t say,” he said, exhaling. Steve knew that smoking was supposed to be bad now, but he couldn’t help but love the smell all the same. One breath and he was back in time, to any one of so many nights just like this one, when he and Bucky had climbed out on the fire escape and watched the city lights. Steve looked out across Brooklyn; if he squinted, it could be 1938.

“It’s funny,” he said. “From down there everything looks so different, but up here it looks almost the same.”

“Brighter,” said Jimmy. “I mean, I’m guessing.”

“Yeah, brighter,” Steve agreed. “Quieter too, although don’t ask me how that works.”

“Weren’t you deaf back then?”

“Only in one ear,” Steve corrected, smiling. Nobody else he’d met in the future had known that.

Jimmy stared out at the view and Steve took advantage of the darkness to stare at Jimmy. He watched his lips purse around the cigarette, watched as he took a drag. Watched as he blew smoke from his mouth and hummed along to the music trickling out from the apartment. _At last_ crooned the singer on the record, and Jimmy swayed into it like an old friend. _My love has come along._

Steve watched Jimmy’s chest expand and contract, unable to quite believe it. It was breathtaking, this simple, incontrovertible act of living. Jimmy might not answer to Bucky’s name, but he was here and he was alive. It was nothing short of a miracle in Steve’s eyes.

Steve couldn’t help it. He was right there, and Steve wanted so much. He leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips. Bucky let out a small noise of surprise but then suddenly, he was kissing Steve back, full force, and it was everything, and it was too much. Steve pulled away.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s all good,” said Jimmy, although he looked a little wistful. “Not the guy you really want to be kissing, huh?”

“Something like that,” said Steve, even though it was the opposite. Jimmy was exactly who he wanted, he just didn’t know it. “Sorry, can we… do you think we can just be friends?”

Jimmy smiled at him. “Sure, pal,” he said. “You can never have too many friends.”

They sat there in silence for a while, Jimmy smoking and Steve staring up at the stars, feeling Jimmy warm beside him. It was enough, for now.

—

“Man, you keep inviting yourself on my morning run and one of these days I’m actually going to die,” Sam said. He looked up at Steve from where he was propped up against a tree, panting. “You hear me? One day this shit is going to kill me.”

“Harden up, soldier,” said Steve, barely sweating. He sat himself down on the grass and lay back, letting the sun wash over him.

Sam flopped down next to him, face first, and groaned. “I don’t understand how I ended up with so many friends who just kick my ass all the time. Yesterday Natasha convinced me to spar with her and now I just have bruises on bruises on bruises.”

Steve hummed in acknowledgement and watched a bird flitting in the tree above them. It really was shaping up to be a beautiful day.

Eventually, Sam’s breath slowed back to normal. “So,” he said, rolling over to face Steve, his voice overly casual. “How’s Jimmy?”

“He’s good,” said Steve, smiling. He was. It had been two months since the night he’d gone to dinner. He’d seen Jimmy seventeen times since, and he still hadn’t found out any of the things he desperately wanted to know, but he’d found out other things. Nice things. He’d learnt that Jimmy didn’t actually like yoga, or exercise at all, really. He liked thai food but he hated sushi; he still loved chocolate milkshakes. He didn’t dance, at least not in front of Steve, but Steve had caught him tapping his feet a few times, absentmindedly, like he didn't even know he was doing it. Bucky used to do the same thing.

“You guys seem to be getting on pretty well,” said Sam.  

Steve tensed. “We’re just friends Sam,” he said.

“Okay,” said Sam. “But I just want you to know that it would be okay if you weren’t. Just friends, that is.”

“I’ve done the sensitivity training, Sam,” Steve said, struggling to keep a note of bitterness out of his voice. “Pretty much as soon as I woke up, SHIELD sent me on a course. I know that blacks can be president and women can be soldiers and even queers get to have a happy ending these days.”

“Good,” said Sam. He hesitated, like he was choosing his words carefully. “I’m not trying to push you to tell me anything you don’t want to, Steve. I just think maybe you think those things apply to everyone but you.”

Steve closed his eyes against the brightness of the sun. “You know Bucky Barnes?” he said.

“Of course.”

“He was the love of my fucking life.”

There was a silence. Steve opened his eyes to find Sam incredibly still next to him, waiting, as if he was worried the wrong move would send Steve running for the hills.

“We never really talked about it, me and him. It was just a fact, I loved him, he loved me, but it couldn’t ever be anything real. We used to fuck and then the next day he’d be trying to set me up with some girl he’d met down the dancehall. And then he was gone.” There was a sharp intake of breath from Sam when Steve said the word ‘fuck’, but he ignored it. “I think it’s great these days that kids can love who they want to love, really Sam, I do. But forgive me if I’m struggling to see how that applies to me.”

Sam was quiet for a moment, like he was processing what Steve had said. “So what, you were just going to find a girl and settle down?”

Steve snorted. “Unlikely. Bucky would have though, eventually.”

“What would you have done?”

“Died,” said Steve. “I mean probably. Pneumonia, most likely. Or TB. Heart failure was also a strong contender, but that sounds a bit melodramatic, given the context.”

“Jesus, Cap,” said Sam. “That’s one hell of a darkest timeline.”

Steve shrugged. “If you’d asked me when I first woke up, I might not have been convinced that this wasn’t worse. I never expected to outlive him.”

Sam was looking at him now with a concerned expression. His counsellor face. Steve didn’t need the counsellor face. Sam was right, he probably should talk about all this more. It felt surprisingly good to talk about Bucky, to let someone else know how important he was. But Steve was doing alright, today, lying in the warmth of a spring morning.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Steve said, smiling. “Today’s a good day; I’m happy to be here. The sun is shining and me and Jimmy are going to the zoo.”

“The _zoo_?”

“Yup,” said Steve, jumping to his feet. “Race you home!”

“Motherfu—”, said Sam, but Steve missed the end, already halfway across the park.

—

“Thought you’d be over penguins, after seventy years in the ice,” said Jimmy.

“They don’t have penguins in the arctic,” said Steve. “Didn’t you read the sign? Penguins only live south. Besides, I was unconscious, I wasn’t exactly getting to know the locals.”

They rounded onto the fourth flight of stairs heading to Jimmy’s fifth-floor walk up. Stairs like these always made Steve especially glad for the ease with which air flowed through his lungs; no battle he’d won had ever made him feel as strong as climbing a few storeys could. Something about facing your demons, he figured.

“Of course I didn’t read the sign,” said Jimmy. “Who goes to the zoo to read the signs?”

“I do,” said Steve. “I like learning about the animals.”

“Nerd,” said Jimmy. They stopped outside the door to his apartment, and he fished around for his keys. “I liked the meerkats,” he said, unlocking the door. “Tiny but bold. Reminded me of someone.”

“The meerkats were pretty cute,” said Steve, following Jimmy inside. “But if you’d read the sign you’d know that meerkats may be small but they can dig their body weight of dirt in just 2-3 seconds.”

“Didn’t need to read the sign to know they were fucking adorable,” said Jimmy. He stopped abruptly.

“A group of meerkats is called a mob,” said Steve. Then he noticed why Jimmy had stopped.

Maria Hill was sitting at the table and she had a gun pointed directly at Jimmy. “Hello boys,” she said. “Enjoy the zoo?”

“Maria?” said Steve, baffled. “What are you doing?”

“Protecting you.”

“From what?”

“From him,” she said, tilting her head towards Jimmy. “I’m sorry Captain, he’s not who he says he is.”

“I know,” said Steve. “I know exactly who he is.”

“I doubt that,” said Maria, her voice hard. “He’s an assassin. World class.”

“I don’t understand,” said Steve. He didn’t. Jimmy wasn’t an assassin. He worked at Subway.

“They call him the Winter Soldier,” Maria said. “Got more kills to his name then anyone else, all for America’s enemies.”

That’s not true,” said Steve. He looked at Jimmy, but Jimmy was still just staring at Maria, unmoving.

“I’m sorry, but it is,” said Maria. “We think you’re his next target.”

“That’s not true,” repeated Steve, grinding his jaw. “Tell her, Jimmy.”

Maria arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, Jimmy. Tell us.”

“Goddamn it,” said Jimmy, and Steve could feel the bottom dropping out of his world.

“No,” said Steve, refusing to believe it.

Jimmy turned to look at him, hand tugging at his hair, a tortured expression on his face. His blue eyes met Steve’s and they were filled with… was that _pity_?

“Sorry, Stevie,” he said. Then he dived out the window in a shatter of glass.

Maria swore and dived after him.

Steve didn’t follow. Instead, he collapsed onto Maria’s vacated chair and stared unseeingly at the wall.

He’d spent the last few months so happy, thinking he might have found a future where Bucky was alive, and had a nice cosy apartment and plenty to eat, and a cat. Steve laughed, bordering on hysterical. A cat! It all seemed so idyllic, the kind of future Steve might have dreamed for them, once upon a time.

Of course he should have known it was all too good to be true. But an assassin? Steve couldn’t comprehend it.

—

The briefing Steve got called into the next morning didn’t do much to clarify things.

He was told that SHIELD was doing its very best to catch the Winter Soldier, aka Jimmy Binns, and that Steve was safe in his apartment in Stark Tower, but that he was not to approach Jimmy if he did appear. When he asked for more information about the Winter Soldier he was told that the Soldier was a skilled sniper implicated in at least twenty-three kills between 1952 and 1986, all attributed to the former Soviet Union.

No one seemed to have noticed the resemblance to Steve’s childhood friend, and he didn’t point it out.

“So he’s been killing people since 1952?” Steve asked, sounding skeptical. “That would make him almost as old as I am. He doesn’t look it.”

“Neither do you,” said Fury, testily. He sighed. “Honestly, we weren’t entirely sure he was anything more than a ghost story. All the information we have is based on the reports of a few spooked agents and a blurry picture from 1974. But the picture’s a match, and that arm’s pretty distinctive.”

“Right,” said Steve. He’d thought the arm was a useful piece of twenty-first century technology for a wounded soldier, but it turned out it was the weapon of a Russian assassin. “So when the Soviet Union collapsed and the ghost assassin stopped shooting people, you didn’t do any investigating?”

“We were told that the Winter Soldier was dead,” said Maria. “And up till now we’ve had no reason to believe otherwise. Jimmy Binns has been living a quiet life in Brooklyn for the last twelve years. He only came to our attention after he befriended you and our vetting process established that his identity was fraudulent.”

“You _vet_ my _friends_?” asked Steve, disgusted.

“Of course we do,” said Fury, unapologetic. “You’re a national icon, Cap. Something happens to you and the stock market plummets and then suddenly I’ve got presidents in my ear demanding to know why we were letting you hang out with a terrorist.”

Steve ground his teeth and went home to punch his punching bag.

Natasha found him in the Tower gym that afternoon. “I was wondering when you were going to go back to punching inanimate objects,” she said.

Steve ignored her.

“Ice cream’s good too,” she said. “For a post-break up wallow. Or so I’ve heard. Alcohol, but that doesn’t do much for you, I guess. You could try Adele?”

“I’m not wallowing,” said Steve, through gritted teeth. “And me and Jimmy didn’t break up.”

“I know,” she said. “You and Jimmy weren’t like that, and you’re just fine about your new best friend turning out to be a deadly assassin.”

Steve didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. Of course he wasn’t fine, but what good would it do to dwell on it? If SHIELD thought he was compromised they wouldn’t tell him anything, and Steve needed to know how their hunt for Jimmy was going. “No point moping,” he said, and gave the punching bag a good thwack.

“And what a convincing job you’re doing.”

Steve carried on punching. Then a sudden thought came to him and he stopped. “You’re Russian,” he said.

“How astute,” said Natasha.

“What do you know about the Winter Soldier?”

Natasha surveyed him carefully. Her gaze wasn’t unkind, but it was searching, and Steve could feel it reach right through him. “Officially, nothing.”

“And unofficially?”

“Jarvis, disable all recording in the gym,” Natasha said, without looking away from Steve.

“Certainly, Miss Romanov,” said Jarvis. “All gymnasium recording devices disabled.”

Natasha moved towards Steve, and leaned in close. “Not a lot,” she said, in a low voice. “He was known as the Asset. The prize jewel of the Red Room’s arsenal for years.”

Steve felt a shiver run down his spine.

“He’s old, much older than me,” said Natasha. “And I’m older than I look. I saw him years apart and he never seemed to age. And he’s dangerous, Steve, they’re not wrong about that. He’s highly trained, deadly, never misses his target, never questions orders. Disciplined like nobody I’ve ever met, and I’ve met some pretty ruthless people.”

“So you knew him?”

“I don’t think anyone _knew_ him. I don’t think there was anything in there to know.” Natasha hesitated. “Steve, I don’t think this is something that will be easy for you to understand, but they called him the Asset because that’s what he was. A shell, a weapon for them to program, not a man. Not really.”

Steve clenched his fists, but he forced himself to keep listening instead of laying into the punching bag.

“I went on a mission with him once, just me and him. In Prague. A five hour stake-out, in a cafe across the road from the target’s house. He barely said three words to me the whole time, wasn’t interested in anything but the mission.” Natasha paused. “And then a song came on, on the cafe radio. I don’t know what it was, something old, but he got this bewildered expression on his face, like he was lost. But then the song ended, and the target came outside, and the Soldier shot him. And that was that, mission over.”

“Fuck,” said Steve. He punched the bag with all his force, once, twice, three times, and watched it swing, trying to distract himself from the panic rising in his chest.

Natasha caught the bag and held it still. “Steve,” she said. “The last thing I want to do is talk about your feelings. That’s why we keep Sam around. But when you first met Jimmy, you said something to me.”

“I said he looked like Bucky,” said Steve dully.

“Yeah,” said Natasha. “I figured you were just nostalgic or something. But—”

“Same,” said Steve. “Or I was going crazy. But I’m certain now. The Winter Soldier is Bucky Barnes. He doesn’t remember me, but it’s him.”

Steve expected Natasha to tell him that was impossible, or that he was nuts, but she just nodded. “It makes sense.”

“Does it?” said Steve. None of it made sense to him. Bucky’d somehow survived certain death and become a Russian assassin. It sounded like the kind of thing Bucky would have made up when they were kids; a story to entertain Steve when he was sick. Except if Bucky was telling the tale there’d be a certain degree of swagger, of derring-do, and there was none of that in Natasha’s story.

“It's starting to,” Natasha said cryptically. “I'll do some digging, see what I can come up with.” She let go of the punching bag, letting it swing back towards Steve, and stalked out of the gym.

—

Steve went back to Jimmy’s apartment to feed the cat. There was a SHIELD agent on the door, but Steve just glared at him and he let Steve in with a nervous salute.

The cat hissed at Steve when he approached — Jimmy was right, it really was an asshole — but when Steve put the food down it gave it a cursory, suspicious sniff, and dug right in.

Steve looked around the kitchen while the cat ate. On the fridge there was a postcard, the hollywood sign, and a child’s drawing, ‘to JiMMY, LovE LEoN’ written at the bottom, both e’s backwards. On top of the fridge were herbs growing in a pot; basil, it looked like, and mint.

Whoever Jimmy was, he’d made a home here. Steve had yet to find anywhere in the twenty-first century that felt like home himself and he hated the idea of Jimmy’s reverting to some cold, unlived in place. So he stuck one of Jimmy's records on and watered the plants, trying to reclaim some of the warmth that had been here before.

As he did, he noticed there was a ring in the dust on top of the fridge, like something else had been up there with the kitchen herbs. SHIELD must have been in here, looking for clues; had they taken something? Steve looked around and spotted an empty picture hook on the hallway wall, a faint rectangle faded into the wallpaper around it. If something had been hanging there the last time he was here, he couldn’t remember what it was.

He walked through the apartment, looking for more evidence of disruption. There was another empty picture hook above the couch, and tracks in the dust on the bookshelf, like some books had been removed and the others rearranged to cover the gaps. But if SHIELD had raided the place, Steve didn’t think they’d bother hiding what they’d taken.

He skimmed his eyes across the bookshelf, trying to see if any of the titles he remembered seeing there were missing. They were all there, as far as Steve could tell, from _Harry Potter_ to _Jane Eyre_. He paused when he got to _Slaughterhouse-Five_ , the book Jimmy had been so sure he wouldn’t like. He ran his finger over the cracked spine, and then, with a foolish, furtive look around the apartment, he took it from the shelf and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Steve continued his survey of the apartment. Jimmy’s bedroom door was ajar, and when he peered his head round the bed was rumpled, blue-grey sheets pushed to one side, like Jimmy had only just got up. It was too inviting; Steve toed off his shoes and climbed in, pulling the blankets over him until he was surrounded by Jimmy’s smell. Jimmy didn’t use Brylcreem and he had uninterrupted access to hot water, so he shouldn’t really smell anything like Bucky, but all the same, he did.

Steve lay there for a while, feeling sorry for himself. This is definitely what Natasha would call wallowing, he thought, but he didn’t care.

He pulled out the book from his pocket, and started reading.

He read it all the way through, curled up in Jimmy’s bed. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Bucky would have liked it, what with the aliens. Steve wondered if Jimmy thought Steve wouldn’t because it happened all out of order, or because it wasn’t exactly positive about the war.

The thought made Steve sigh, and put the book down. He’d always known Bucky hadn’t felt the same way about the war that Steve did. Bucky had never been one to start fights, he just finished them when Steve couldn’t on his own.

“I wasn’t the one who became a deadly assassin, Buck,” Steve muttered, but it wasn’t fair, and it didn’t fit.

Bucky Barnes wasn’t an assassin. He was a damn good shot, and he always had Steve’s back, but he didn’t kill anyone unless he had to. It didn’t make sense.

Eventually, Steve drifted off, cocooned in Jimmy’s scent, and dreamed of Bucky, all dolled up in his best suit, ready to go dancing. In the dream, Bucky tried to get Steve to come along, but when Steve took his hand he realised Bucky wasn’t wearing his suit after all, but the outfit of what Steve’s subconscious thought was a Russian cossack – a baggy sleeved shirt, a sash, and a furry hat. “But I don’t know any Russian dances,” Steve tried to explain, but Bucky didn’t understand. “Why won’t you dance with me, Stevie?” he kept saying, and then his hand slipped from Steve’s grasp, and he was falling, falling into the snowy ravine below.

Steve woke up with a gasp. The room was cold and dark; night had fallen while he slept. He stretched out a leg and dislodged a warm lump near his knee, which hissed and jumped down onto the floor.

“Sorry,” said Steve blearily. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were there.” He sat up and rubbed at his eyes, feeling exhausted rather than rested.

The cat glared up at him from the ground. “Yeah,” said Steve wearily. “Yeah, I don’t know what I’m doing here either.” Looking for signs of Bucky, he supposed, but he couldn’t say he’d found them.

He climbed out of Jimmy’s bed and left, only pausing on the way out to make the SHIELD agent on the door promise to keep feeding the cat. “And water the plants. Not everyday, don’t drown them. Just enough, you know, so they don’t die. And pick up the mail.”

“Yessir,” said the SHIELD agent, who was really very young, and looked terrified by the responsibility of keeping a plant alive for Captain America.

“Good,” said Steve, and he went back to his own empty apartment, where he belonged.

—

A few days later, Natasha turned up again, this time in Steve’s kitchen, with Sam in tow.

“I have something for you,” she said. “But it’s not nice. You’re not going to like it.”

“What is it?” said Steve.

“Information. On the Winter Soldier. His file, from the Red Room.”

Steve glanced at Sam. “Is he here in case I get emotional?”

“No?” said Sam, uncertainly.

“Yes,” said Natasha. “It’s really not pretty, Steve.”

“Give it to me,” said Steve.

Natasha hesitated. “Steve…”

“Look, Natasha,” said Steve. “When first saw him, I thought it was a miracle. But it wasn’t, was it?”

“Depends on your view of miracles,” said Natasha. “But no, Steve, it doesn’t look like there was much godly beneficence involved.”

“I know it’s going to be bad,” said Steve. “But if he’s who I think he is, I need to know what happened to him.”

Natasha stared at him, her gaze assessing. Then she handed the file over.

Steve took it, hands shaking. It was a plain brown manila folder, the kind Steve hadn’t seen since the war, with Russian type stamped on the cover. “Has SHIELD seen this?” Steve asked.

“No,” said Natasha. “They don’t know I have it.”

Steve looked up at that, surprised. Natasha just shrugged. “Okay,” said Steve.

He sat down and opened the file. He’d known it was going to be bad; he’d known it was unlikely Bucky had just decided to defect to the Russians. But it was worse than he could ever have imagined. He only got halfway through before he had to rush to the bathroom to be sick.

There were pictures; Bucky after they’d found him in the alps, frostbitten and missing an arm; Bucky as the Winter Soldier, blank faced and strapped to a chair; of the cryo tank they’d kept him in when they weren’t using him. There were detailed notes on exactly how they’d trained him, how they’d taken all his memories and replaced them with nothing but the knowledge of how to kill, expertly, mercilessly.

So that was why Jimmy hadn’t recognised Steve; they’d wiped his memory, not just once, but  dozens of times, until the life they’d once shared together had been burnt away completely. Until they’d turned him into someone he wasn’t, a cold-blooded killer.

But that wasn’t who Jimmy was, Steve was certain. Maybe Jimmy wasn’t Bucky, but he wasn’t this Winter Soldier either. He had a cat, and he made sandwiches for a living, and when he laughed he made Steve feel a warmth he hadn’t felt anywhere else this century.

According to his file, the Winter Soldier had most recently been kept in a base somewhere near Minsk. But according to SHIELD, Jimmy had spent the last twelve years making a life for himself in Brooklyn, only a few blocks from where Bucky had grown up. At some point, somehow, he’d found his way home, whether he’d known it or not.

“How did he get back here?” Steve asked, once he’d stopped retching into the toilet. “America, I mean. New York. Brooklyn.”

“Not sure,” said Natasha.

Steve had never been able to read Natasha for shit; she was too good. He had no idea if she was telling the truth now, and the searching look he gave her didn’t reveal much. She just shrugged. “He went missing when the Soviet Union collapsed,” she said. “Along with a lot of the Red Room’s other assets. Most of them have since turned up in the hands of other organizations.”

“But he didn’t,” said Steve.

“Not as far as we know,” said Natasha.

“Maria said he’d been here for twelve years, no incidents.”

“Someone could be playing the long game.”

“Nobody even knew I was alive twelve years ago,” Steve said mulishly.

“Not everything is about you, Steve,” said Natasha, sounding impatient.

“You think he’s just been pretending?” Steve asked. He gestured to the file. “You really think he’s still the guy in here? Just blindly following orders, waiting for the right moment to take me out?”

“I think we don’t know for sure,” said Natasha. “And I think that makes him dangerous.”

“Jimmy’s not dangerous,” said Steve. It was the truth, he was sure of it.

“Even if he’s not, Steve,” Sam broke in, speaking in the tone Steve recognised as his best talking-to-someone-who’s-pretty-fucked-up voice, “the conditioning in that file, the trauma – it would take someone a long time to get over that. If you even could. I’ve met vets who have gone through a fraction of the things he has and who have never really recovered.”

“Jimmy was fine,” said Steve. “I mean, his sense of humour was a little dark, but he wasn’t a basket case.”

“I know,” said Sam, gently. “That’s what worries me. We do want to help him, Steve, but you gotta be prepared there’s a chance he’s not entirely himself.”

Steve didn’t believe it. He thought about Jimmy’s battered copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five_. It wasn’t the kind of book you read if you were a unrepentant mass-murderer, Steve was pretty sure. But he took Sam’s concern for what it was, and nodded. “I understand,” he said. Then he looked down at the file, open on the table to a schematic of the chair. “Are any of the people who did this to him still alive?” he said.

“Yes,” said Natasha. “Those kinds of people don’t just disappear. They just start working for someone else.”

Cut off one head, thought Steve. “Good,” he said, aloud. “Time for me to really start punching things.”

Somewhere on the other side of town, Bucky Barnes groaned and buried his head in his hands.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky wished could say that he’d escaped from his captors in a blaze of glory — yippee ki yay, motherfucker — but the truth was less exciting. When the Soviet Union collapsed, the men guarding the base where he was kept had abandoned their posts, and the base had been looted. Somewhere in the chaos, the Winter Soldier’s cryo chamber had lost power and he’d begun to thaw.

Awaking with no idea who he was and no one to give him orders, the Soldier had simply wandered, lost, around Eastern Europe, the niggling feeling that there was something he was supposed to be getting back to pushing him vaguely, slowly, westwards.

The further he travelled, the more clear he became about what — who — he was searching for. A man, blond and blue-eyed, sometimes big and sometimes small, but always terrible at looking out for himself. The Soldier knew he needed to find him soon, before he got into trouble.

By the time he’d reached the newly reunified Germany, the Soldier had remembered enough that he knew the man’s name, even if he wasn’t too sure about his own. Unfortunately, he’d also put things together enough to realize that the world had changed a lot since the last time he’d seen Steve.

He found a library in Frankfurt and did some research. Steve Grant Rogers (Captain America, the books called him) had died crashing a plane into the sea just weeks before victory was declared in Europe. According to the books, he was a hero who’d saved millions of lives.

The Soldier read all this and swore, colorfully, in English.

He was fifty years too late.

—

Gradually the Soldier remembered this his name was Bucky Barnes. He remembered that once he’d had sisters, and a mother, and a home. He remembered that he’d liked dancing and science fiction novels and apple pie. He remembered Steve — pulling him out of the gutter when he’d stood up to a kid twice his size again; curling up close to him in an attempt to keep him warm at night; kissing him desperately, hungrily, when Bucky couldn’t hold in his want anymore.

It all seemed pretty pointless now, remembering the things he’d lost.

It took years for his mind to properly unjumble itself, his past slowly sliding into place. At first he spent most of his time loitering in alleyways, scavenging for food and flinching when ever anyone got too close. Not all of the memories that came back were cosy and bittersweet. Some were cold and sharp: a target through his scope; a bullet between the eyes; a plea for mercy ignored. Those memories gave Bucky nightmares, left him freezing cold and shaking in the middle of the night. Made him think it might be for the best that Steve was gone, if it meant he’d never know about the Winter Soldier.

But eventually he started to crave warm food and a roof over his head while he slept. He noticed how filthy he was, started to feel itchy with grime. He started to feel guilty about stealing food from strangers; tried instead to pick up what work he could. In the countryside he drove tractors and helped with the harvest; in the cities it was forklifts and construction. It was always manual, unskilled labor, but it was usually enough for a hot meal and a bed for the night, and he had no desire to use the skills he knew he had. It was hard work but it was at least honest, and he watched with satisfaction as he developed callouses on his (flesh) palm that had nothing to do with holding a gun. They felt familiar; he thought he might have done that kind of work before.

In Calais he got work on a boat crossing the Channel and found himself in England. He didn’t like it much. Everyone treated him like a tourist, asked him if he was on his gap year. All over Europe the Winter Soldier’s skill for language had allowed him to sound like a local, but as soon as he spoke English it failed him. Brooklyn crept into his voice without him even noticing, and everyone knew where he was from.

He slipped into a bar one afternoon (a pub, he tried calling it, but it was no use, the vowels sounded all wrong), desperate to hide from it all. It was cool and dark inside, empty apart from a handful of elderly men with nowhere else to be. A repeat of a soccer game from the weekend was playing on the tv in the corner, and the bored looking woman behind the bar barely glanced his way, just shoved a full pint in front of him.

Bucky downed it gratefully, half an eye on the soccer match. He was trying to understand the point of a game where nothing ever seemed to happen, when suddenly the picture changed, and the field disappeared, replaced by the New York skyline. It had changed since Bucky had last seen it, but he still recognised it; the feeling of _home_ a sudden kick to the gut. And there was smoke, billowing into the sky, as a pair of towers burned.

And Bucky felt a surge of rage, more intense than he’d felt in years.

That was his home. That was Steve’s home. Steve had _died_ trying to save that damn city. How dare anyone try and harm it now?

He must have made a noise of some kind, because the woman behind the bar tore her eyes away from the screen above them and looked at him.

“Oh, love,” she said, her voice full of pity. And then, as if not sure what else to do, she poured another pint and wordlessly set it in front of him.

—

Bucky Barnes decided that day that it was time to come home.

Part of him wasn’t sure he deserved it. The Winter Soldier’s memories didn’t make much sense to him; he’d never been given enough information to have any context to all the blood on his hands. But even he’d picked up enough to know that the time he’d apparently spent working for the Soviets hadn’t exactly been a rosy time for US/Russian relations.

Even before he became the Winter Soldier Bucky hadn’t been a particularly principled man, not like Steve. He’d always done what he’d had to do keep them both alive; lied and cheated and stolen. He indulged when he could, in drink and dancing and pleasures of the flesh. Steve had always said that the way they made each other feel couldn’t be a sin; Bucky just hadn’t really cared. When the war came Bucky had joined up because it came with a steady paycheck, because he thought he’d look swell in the uniform, because he thought it would be an adventure. Protecting the nation hadn’t really come into it much.

But the sight of New York burning, toppling, on the TV screen had surprised him with how strongly he’d felt it; he hadn’t thought he had any outrage left in him, hadn’t thought he had anything left that was his to feel outraged about. But New York was still home, apparently, even if everyone he’d known there was dead and gone. And so he went back.

First thing he did was track down an old Soviet base in downtown Manhattan and liberate it of the significant amount of cash stored in its vault, along with some of the better weapons, and set the whole thing on fire. He did the same thing at three different locations dotted around the city. He’d resisted doing this in Europe, concerned about drawing attention to himself. He was sure losing an asset as useful as the Winter Soldier had not been an intended consequence of glasnost and he was almost certainly being looked for somewhere. But he sure as hell wasn’t sharing his hometown with the bastards, so he went on a tour of their old bases and made sure they were well and truly cleared out. Only once he was satisfied that nothing remained but embers did he head for the Brooklyn Bridge.

He used the cash he’d found to buy himself a small apartment around the corner from where he and Steve had lived in 1940 and set about decorating it with an assortment of mismatched second-hand furniture, old fashioned crockery that reminded him of his Ma’s dinner set, and a gun safe he buried deep in the back of the wardrobe. He tried to remember how to live, properly. Tried to eat three square meals and sleep through the night.

It got easier, somehow. There was still a Steve-shaped hole inside him, but slowly, Bucky started to build a semblance of a life around it. He got a job in a fast-food joint where he had to actually talk to people, and forced himself to engage with the world, at least a little bit. Tried to catch up on a few of the things he'd missed over the years. He bought himself an ‘ipod’ and filled it with Nina Simone, Bruce Springsteen, the Ramones, Wu-Tang Clan; joined the local library and read his way through the decades. Spent weeks trying to remember the recipe for his ma’s apple pie and cried when it finally tasted right.

He got a cat, accidentally, a stray that followed him home one day. It wasn't affectionate; just hungry. Once it had eaten its full it stared at Bucky coolly, assessing him with aloof indifference. Evidently deciding Bucky was uninteresting, it stuck a hind leg in the air and concentrated instead on the important task of cleaning itself. But Bucky woke up in the middle of the night and the cat had made itself comfortable in the middle of the bed, somehow shunting Bucky to the side, and it was — warm, so he fed it again in the morning, and it stuck around.

The first year or two he barely talked to anyone but the customers in the store, and even then his interactions were perfunctory at best. He didn’t have any desire to make friends, wasn’t ready to talk to anyone for longer than it took to make a sandwich. But his co-workers were mostly kids, poor ones, and it turned out they had a way of tearing down his walls.

First there was Ollie, a weedy teenage boy whose high school bullies used to come into the store to jeer at him and make a mess. Bucky had tried stay out of it, but they were fucking annoying. He’d turned a menacing glare on the kids and told them in no uncertain terms to get out. They’d scarpered, and Bucky thought that was it, but then Ollie had turned to him with a weak smile of gratitude and Bucky had found himself offering advice.

“You just gotta stand your ground, kid,” he said, surprising himself. “One good hit and they’ll find an easier target to pick on. Just make sure you keep your thumb outside your fist when you do it. And go for the stomach. Faces hurt.”

Ollie’s eyes had widened at the idea, but he’d hobbled into work a week later with a cut above his eyebrow, cradling his hand. Bucky reached for the store first aid kit. “You went for the face, didn’t you?”

Ollie nodded sheepishly. Bucky tutted, and set about cleaning him up. He expected it to hurt, doing for Ollie what he’d done so many times for Steve, but it was comforting actually, muscle memory taking over as he carefully dabbed and bandaged, another living person beneath his hands. “I don’t think you’ve broken anything,” he said, gently testing each of Ollie’s fingers, and Ollie gave him a quiet, grateful smile.

After that, he and Ollie had a bond, albeit a quiet, largely unspoken one, but then Ollie left and went to college in Massachusetts, and he was replaced by Omar, who wasn’t quiet at all. He was loud and chatty, with an appetite for melodrama. At first Bucky hadn’t quite known how to respond to this whirlwind of a kid, who seemed unable to comprehend that Bucky might prefer to work in silence. But then, Omar’s stories were so outrageous that after a while Bucky realised all he could do was laugh. It surprised him, at first, the small snort that escaped him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. But it had felt good. ‘Kid,’ he’d said, shaking his head. “You're more entertainment than a Saturday nickelodeon.’

‘I hope so,’ said Omar. ‘When I get famous it's not going to be on the fucking _nickelodeon channel_.’ Then he paused. ‘Wait, do you have cable? Oh my god, I've been begging my mom to get us cable for months but my fucking step-dad is always like ‘do you think I'm made of money’ and it's like obviously _not_ Terry, your fucking broke ass contributes _nothing_ to this family. Oh my god if you have cable can you be my new Dad? Not like in a sexy way, I'm not looking for a sugar daddy yet but like Hugh Grant styles in About a Boy, you know? I know I'm not as cute as that white kid but at least I can sing Killing Me Softly without my voice cracking.’ He stopped and blinked expectantly, like he was prepared to give a demonstration if Bucky wanted one.

Bucky had only understood about half of what the kid had said. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘No, I don't have cable.’

‘Damn,’ said Omar, and then launched into a blow by blow account of the fight he was having with his best friend Monique. Most conversations with Omar went along the same lines, startling Bucky into laughter and drawing him more and more into the many dramas of Omar’s life. It was hard to avoid engaging with humanity when humanity threw itself at you the way Omar did, and Bucky felt his shell begin to crack, just a little bit.

After a year of working together Omar told him he was moving to LA ‘to become the next Paris Hilton’. Before he left Bucky slipped him a handful of cash and his phone number, which he’d yet to give to anyone else. “Just in case you end up in real hot water,” he’d said gruffly, and clapped Omar on the back. Omar had never used the number, but he’d sent Bucky a postcard of the Hollywood hills which Bucky stuck to his fridge and smiled at sometimes while eating breakfast.

After Omar came Maria, who wasn’t a kid but definitely was poor, a single mom with a seven year old son who used to sit in the corner of the store coloring some days, when Maria’s childcare fell through. He was a solemn little fella, sat hunched over his drawing like it was the most serious task imaginable. Bucky found himself pulling faces at the kid, bug-eyed and tongue lolling, in an attempt to get him to smile. It worked; the kid let out a startled giggle, and a week later Bucky had a hand-drawn picture of himself up on fridge next to his postcard.

There was Jessica, a beautiful, self-assured black girl who’d heard Bucky use the phrase ‘back in my day’ _once_ and then wouldn’t stop calling him Grandpa. There was Colette, a middle-aged woman who used to fuss over Bucky and bring him homemade brownies, telling him he needed fattening up — objectively not true, as Bucky was neither starving poor nor regularly engaged in combat for the first time in his life. There was even Greg, an officious little man who reminded Bucky that sometimes humanity was nothing more or less than really fucking annoying, and who also reassured him that he could have the desire to hurt someone in various painful ways and not actually do it. And of course there was Alicia, sweetness itself, planning her fairytale wedding.

And there was Sam, down at the VA. Bucky had walked past the place every day for years, ignoring it completely, but one day he stopped. Fuck it, he thought. I’m a veteran. So he went in. Just to see what it was like. And Sam had been there, talking, and Bucky had stayed and listened. Sam talked about a little yellow kitchen, and how he’d dreamed of it all the time he was over there, and how when he got home the kitchen had been painted blue, and his sister had left for college, and the tree outside had fallen. Bucky’s sister had gone somewhere a lot further than college, but when he listened to Sam talk he felt the distance between himself and the rest of the world recede, just a little bit.

So he went back. Listened to Sam’s talks, even joined a couple of group therapy sessions. He kept his arm hidden, knew it was better than what any of the guys there had. Hid a lot of other things about himself too, tried not to speak much – he figured that if he tried to tell the truth about his past they'd think he was one cracked up old soldier and send him off to the looney bin, and Bucky had had enough of being strapped to gurneys to last a lifetime. Or worse, they'd believe him, and it would be firing squads at dawn. So he didn’t talk, but he listened, and it seemed to help a little. Loosened something in him, to hear other people talking about the way war had put them through the wringer too. None of them had done the things he’d done, but he somehow felt less alone all the same.

It wasn’t enough, though, according to Sam, who pulled Bucky aside after a session. “You know, talking really does help,” he said. “Coming here and listening is good, but talking is important too.”

Bucky stared at him. “I talk to my cat,” he said. It was true. The cat was still an disdainful asshole, but Bucky had seen what it did to mice. It wasn’t really in a position to judge him for his war crimes.

Sam laughed. “Okay, man, I'm glad to hear it. But if you ever wanna talk to a human, just let me know.” Then he leaned in, conspiratorial. “It might help some of the others too, to hear what you’ve got to say. Bobby likes you, I can tell, and you were really good when Tanya had that panic attack last week.”

Bucky hadn’t known Tanya was having a panic attack; all he’d known was that she’d started breathing funny, so he’d reacted the way he used to do whenever Steve’s asthma played up, slowed his own breathing down and used his calmest voice to get her to match it. But Sam made it sound like Bucky had done something impressive, like he’d stepped up to the plate in a crisis, not just done what anyone else would have done.

“If that kind of blatant manipulation gets anybody around here to open up then the US army’s interrogation training is not what it used to be,” Bucky said flatly. At the next meeting he listened to Bobby, all of twenty-one and missing most of a leg, talk in halting terms about watching his friend get his head blown clean off, and thought it was ridiculous that a kid with that kind of courage could get anything out of something Bucky had to say. But then, Sam knew a lot more about this than he did, and, well, if there was a chance, Bucky thought, and next thing he knew he found himself talking.

“I got hurt,” he said. “I — fell, and it was pretty bad. But while I was—” he swallowed, “—injured, a buddy of mine did something stupid, and I wasn’t there to stop him. He’s a hero, saved so many lives, but I can’t — I can’t help but feel like if I hadn’t fallen, I would have… I would have been able to save him.”

Sam looked at him with encouraging eyes. That’s it, thought Bucky desperately. That’s all I have to say, don’t make me say any more, you fucking sadist.

“You’re not alone, Jimmy,” said Sam. “We’ve all got someone we wish we could have saved, we think we should have been able to save.” He launched into a spiel about guilt, and how to deal with it, and once it became clear he wasn’t going to push Bucky further, Bucky let out a deep breath of relief and screwed his eyes shut tight to prevent any tears escaping. What would Steve think if he could see him now, Bucky wondered? He’d probably take one look at Bucky’s comfortable apartment and demand to know what Bucky could possibly have to be upset about.

Bucky felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes. It was Tanya. “You okay?” she murmured. Across the room, Bobby was watching him, biting the corner of his lip with concern. I’m not a good role model, Bucky wanted to yell at him; please don’t idolise me. Instead he focused on the warmth of Tanya’s hand, the rare feeling of another human’s touch. “Yeah,” he said, letting out a shaky breath. “I’ll be alright.”

And he was, surprisingly.

Bucky was always careful to keep these people at a distance. He didn’t tell them much, didn’t let them in. He never let on that he was anyone other than who he pretended to be; never let slip that his past was any more damning than any other soldier’s.

But bit by bit, they all chipped away at the ice inside him; one by one they forced him to open up, just slightly, enough that he started to feel vaguely human. More and more he found himself slipping into his old 1930s charm, putting on the cheerful, easy-going personality he’d had before the war. A lot of the time it felt like an act, but sometimes, like when he couldn’t resist flirting a little with an elderly customer just to see her blush, or when a kid smiled at him and he smiled back — sometimes, it felt real.

—

When Bucky had heard they’d found Steve out in the ice, when he heard that Steve was _alive_ , he’d had to stop himself from immediately breaking into wherever they were keeping him and stealing him away.

He’d talked himself out of it pretty quick though. Wherever Steve was, he reasoned, it was bound to be swarming with people who’d be way too interested in the Winter Soldier.

That was just an excuse. The truth was, Bucky didn’t know how to face his best friend after all the things he’d done. What would he say? Yeah, Stevie, I’m alive, I survived by murdering people for America’s enemies for fifty years? Bucky had watched Kennedy’s assassination over and over again but he still couldn’t say for certain whether he’d done it or not. Captain America didn’t have friends who killed presidents. So he stayed away.

His resistance had faltered slightly, when Steve gave his first press conference. Steve had sat there with his big blue eyes and talked about how he simply couldn’t let that plane keep flying and any other man would have done the same.

“If I’d’ve saved my life at the expense of all of New York,” he said to a charmed reporter in the front row. “Well, ma’am, I’m not sure it would have been worth living.”

Bucky sat in front of his tv and seethed with the desire to find Steve and whack him over the head for being so goddamn stupid.

He lost focus on what Steve was saying for a moment, too busy watching Steve’s chest rise and fall with every breath he took. Steve was alive, despite his dumbass hero complex, and Bucky couldn’t quite believe it.

Then he heard Steve say his name. “What was Bucky like?” Steve was saying, with a wistful smile. “Oh, he was a charmer. Made all the girls swoon. Was always getting me into trouble.”

“Don’t you lie to the American public, Stevie,” Bucky muttered. “It was always you getting us into trouble.”

The Steve on the tv was looking sad now. “He was kind and generous and so warm-hearted.  He was the best man I ever knew,” he said.

Bucky turned the tv off. He didn’t think he’d ever been that good of a man, but he sure as hell wasn’t now. Better to leave Steve with his memories then let him see what the man he’d known had become.

Of course, Bucky hadn’t expected Steve to just _walk into his shop._

—

Bucky watched Steve out of the corner of his eye. Steve was still staring at him. He’d come in everyday this week, ordered the sub of the day and then sat in the corner, watching Bucky intently, mechanically chewing his food like he wasn’t even tasting it. It was unbelievably unsubtle, but then, Steve had never been all that good at subtlety. Bucky was torn between frustration and an overwhelming fondness for the stupid mook, who clearly hadn’t gained any sense during his time in the ice.

When Steve had first walked in, Bucky had managed to played it cool. He hadn’t let himself react in any way; hadn’t given in to the urge to to run and hide, or the equally strong desire to tackle Steve to the ground and check him over head to toe for injuries. He’d served Steve like he was any other customer, and had continued to do so ever other day he’d come in. And he’d studiously ignored all the intense staring, even after Alicia had told him very seriously that she thought Captain America might be stalking him.

Bucky was hoping that if he ignored Steve long enough Steve would eventually conclude that it was _not_ his best friend working in a Brooklyn subway and give it up. That plan didn’t seem to be working — it didn’t look like Steve was about to give up, it looked like Steve was plotting out a detailed extraction plan in his head. He could just see it now, Steve staging an elaborate rescue mission to save Bucky from nothing worse than an unflattering shade of green and too much lettuce.

On Friday, Bucky decided enough was enough. He came up with a new strategy: confront Steve about the staring. He’d play it deeply uncomfortable with perhaps just a hint of homophobic indignation, and with a bit of luck Steve would be mortified enough to leave and never come back. He slipped into the chair opposite Steve, intending to tell him to back off, and instead found himself _asking Steve out_.

It was just, well. Bucky had _wanted_. He tried not to, but it was pretty hard to see Steve in the flesh for the first time in seventy years and try and maintain the cool air of a disinterested stranger. Steve had been staring at him for days, and Bucky’s skin was itching with it. He just wanted an excuse to stare back. So when he met Steve’s eyes for the first time in decades he’d lost himself in those baby blues, and instead of getting indignant, he’d _winked_.

Bucky Barnes, you eternal fuck up, he thought.

“I can’t believe you’re going on a date with Captain America,” said Alicia. “Especially after he kept staring at you like that, that was so creepy. But I suppose he can’t have had a lot of practise asking guys out, he mustn’t have had many chances back in the forties, or whatever.”

“You never know,” said Bucky mildly.

“And I suppose you do look creepily like Bucky Barnes,” said Alicia, ignoring him. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

Bucky just blinked innocently. “Who?” he said.

“Jimmy!” said Alicia, outraged. “Bucky Barnes, Captain America’s best friend. You can’t go on a date with him and not know about Bucky. He died in the war, it’s so tragic. I read this theory on the internet that they were secretly in love and after the last week I’m starting think they’re right.”

Great, Bucky thought. His love life was officially a tragedy.

—

Bucky hadn’t been on a date in seventy years but he was pretty sure this one was already going badly. Dancing, Bucky thought, as he stared mutely at Steve over a pile of beer-sodden napkins. That’s what a good date needed. Steve always claimed to hate dancing, but he’d liked it just fine when it was just the two of them in their tiny kitchen. He’d complain all right, but Bucky would wheedle him, ‘Just let me try out this move,’ and put his hand on Steve’s waist and then he’d twirl him round and Steve would smile up at him, and then…

Bucky snapped back to the present. Steve was smiling at him now too, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

This was a terrible idea. Steve clearly wasn’t convinced by Bucky’s cover story, didn’t believe Bucky was anybody other than who he was, and was just waiting for Bucky to prove it. Steve knew Bucky was Bucky but he didn’t know that Bucky knew Bucky was Bucky, and — aw heck, Bucky had no fucking clue what he was doing. Steve was probably imagining some kind of scenario where he brought a helpless amnesiac Bucky in from the cold and rehabilitated him and they lived happily ever after. _That_ wasn’t going to happen, and Bucky was starting realise that all he was doing by being here was setting Steve up for more heartbreak.

Bucky was here now, and all he could do was make sure this whole evening wasn’t a complete trainwreck. Maybe if he put his best foot forward and turned on the charm he could convince Steve he didn’t need rescuing after all.

Bucky could do this. Bucky used to be good at this, goddamn it. He’d made all the girls in Brooklyn swoon, once upon a time. So when Steve suggested pool, even though Steve hated pool (more even than dancing, because he was somehow even worse at it), Bucky just smiled his best smile and said, “Sure, pal.”

—

Bucky got home to find the Black Widow sitting at his kitchen table, pointing a gun at him.

“Hi Natalia,” he said, taking off his jacket and throwing it over the back of one of the chairs. “You want a drink?”

“Sit down,” she said.

Bucky opened the freezer. “Hang on, I think there’s some vodka in here. Long time no see, Natalia. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He was pretty sure it had been about 1987 last time he’d seen the Black Widow, although he had to admit to still being a bit hazy on the details.

“What do you want with Steve Rogers?”

Bucky found the vodka, hidden behind three half eaten tubs of Ben & Jerry’s and some peas. “I think the real question is, what does he want with me?” he said, reaching for two glasses and putting one in front of his guest. “He’s the one who’s been staring at me all week. I’ve been doing my best to ignore it.”

She remained impassive, gun still trained on him.

“Put the gun down, Natalia,” Bucky said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“It’s Natasha now,” she said.

“Okay. Natasha, put the gun down.”

Natasha didn’t move. “Or don’t,” said Bucky. “What do you want?”

“I want to know what the Winter Soldier is doing with Captain America.”

Bucky sighed and sat down. “He asked me out,” he said. “Actually, I asked him out, but only because he was starting to creep out Alicia.”

“You went on a date?” said Natasha, incredulous. The gun lowered infinitesimally.

“The whole thing was a disaster,” said Bucky glumly. He drank his vodka. “Actually, I think I need ice cream.”

He pulled one of the tubs out of the freezer and stuck two spoons inside, putting it on the table between them.

“What, I don’t get a bowl?” said Natasha.

“You’re trying to interrogate me at gunpoint, Natasha. You don’t get the good china.”

“This feels less like an interrogation and more like a bad date pity party.”

“Good,” said Bucky. “Put the damn gun down and eat some ice cream.”

Natasha considered him carefully. Then she put the gun down and reached for the ice cream. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me about the bad date.”

“I fully intended to be charming,” said Bucky. “But then I got wound up by his aw shucks American hero routine, so instead I basically implied he only went to war for the glory of it.”

“Oof,” said Natasha. “Bet he loved that.”

“I just wanted to check that he was okay,” said Bucky. “But he’s so clearly _not_. He already died once for his country and when it turned out it didn’t take all he seems to have done since is look for another opportunity to do it again. Pissed me off.”

Natasha snorted. Bucky looked at her. “You know him. Does he have any hobbies?”

Natasha pulled the spoon out of her mouth. “Punching things.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Bucky sadly. “He always was a self-righteous bastard, but it seems like since he’s come out of the ice he’s forgotten all the parts of himself that weren’t focused on saving other people.” He reached for the ice cream.

Natasha considered him thoughtfully. “Why do you care though? What’s Captain America to the Winter Soldier?”

Bucky looked at her blankly. “Everything,” he said, like it was obvious.

“He’s before your time.”

“He’s before the Winter Soldier’s time, I suppose. I did have a life before all that.”

“I thought I did too,” said Natasha, sounding sceptical. “Turns out it wasn’t real.”

“Mine was definitely real,” said Bucky. “All ninety pounds of him. Still haven’t decided if it’s worse or better, knowing what you lost.”

“And what you lost was Steve?”

“Well yeah,” said Bucky. “Natasha, did you bother asking him why he was stalking me?”

“Yes.” She let out a short laugh. “I’m pretty sure he thinks you’re Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows.

“No,” she said. She put the ice cream carton down abruptly on the table. “That’s impossible.”

“I’m ninety-six years old, Natasha. I’ve seen a lot of impossible things. So have you.”

“If you really are Bucky Barnes, then why is Steve so sad?”

“Cos he’s a mope,” said Bucky. “Also I might have pretended not to recognise him.”

“I’m starting to understand why we’re eating ice cream,” said Natasha, pushing the carton towards Bucky. “Why did you pretend not to recognise him?”

“How do you think Steve Rogers would feel about the Winter Soldier?”

“I think he’d be angry,” said Natasha. “Really angry. But not at you.”

Bucky shrugged. “Either way, I ain’t telling him.” He shot Natasha a sharp look. “And neither are you, okay?”

“I can’t,” she said. “I already told SHIELD the Winter Soldier was dead.”

“What?”

“They would have tried to recruit you. You looked to me like you were retired.”

“How long you been keeping tabs on me?”

“A while,” said Natasha. “You were the Red Room’s deadliest asset. Of course I was going to check up on you. I went to where I last heard they were keeping you and found you were missing. Then I tracked you over here. But you weren’t hurting anyone. So I tried to help you out where I could.”

“You tried to help me out,” said Bucky flatly. “Deadly assassin on the loose and you helped me… do what, exactly?”

“Blend into modern society. In the twenty-first century people notice if you just make up a new identity for yourself.”

“I was doing fine.”

“You just showed up to the VA and told them you were a veteran.”

“I am a veteran.”

“Jimmy Binns is a veteran, thanks to me. You’re eligible for a pension too, if you want one. Although—” Natasha gave his cosy apartment a pointed look “—doesn’t look like you need it.”

“You’re not the only one who knows where the Red Room kept their assets.”

“Clearly. Well, I just shored up your identity a bit. Made you a paper trail. Didn’t you wonder why a driver’s license just showed up in the mail?”

Bucky shrugged. “Thought that was just how they did things in the future.” He took a thoughtful spoonful of ice cream. “Thanks, I guess,” he said.

Natasha reached for her own spoonful. “What are you going to do about Steve?” she said. “He’s not going to just let this go, now he’s found you.”

Bucky sunk a little in his chair. “I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s alright. I’m not the man I used to be. Sooner or later he’ll figure that out.”

“You’re certainly different from the man I knew,” said Natasha.

“Thank god,” said Bucky.

“I don’t know,” said Natasha. “You were a lot less chatty back then, and a lot more inclined to murder people. But you were nice enough to me.”

Bucky snorted.

“You and Steve,” Natasha said. “I’m guessing your relationship was a little less ‘brothers in arms’ then the history books would have us believe.”

Bucky pulled a face. “I think the modern term is fuck buddies,” he said.

“Seriously?” said Natasha. “I always thought Steve was too much of a romantic for that.”

“Oh he was,” said Bucky. “But we had our first kiss in what, 1935? We weren’t ever gonna get a happy ending if we went down that road. So we kept going out with dames – or I did, Steve mostly struck out – and pretended that the ways we kept each other warm at night weren’t anything serious.”

“Yeah, Steve’s behaviour the last week just screams ‘no strings attached’,” said Natasha derisively.

“Yeah, well, like I said. We pretended. In reality I loved him more than anything, and I’m pretty sure he felt the same about me.”

“Well then,” said Natasha. “Are you going after your happy ending now?”

“Don’t, Natasha,” said Bucky. “You ain’t stupid.”

“No,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “I’m not.”

Bucky sighed. “I am,” he said, reaching for the ice cream again. “I think I agreed to go to a yoga class with Captain fuckin’ America.”

—

Steve was back for lunch on Monday. Bucky had been hoping that he’d been enough of a jerk on Friday that Steve would give up on him, but it seemed not.

“Jimmy,” said Steve, smiling across the counter.

“Hey Steve,” said Bucky, tired. Alicia tittered behind him.

“I forgot to get your number on Friday,” said Steve, utterly shameless. “In my defense, I never used to know anyone who had a phone.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. Steve thought he was cute. Steve wasn’t cute. Bucky had no intention of going out with Steve again; he shouldn’t even have gone the first time.

“Sure, pal,” said Bucky. He cursed internally. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. There was something about Steve that always seemed to sap any resolve Bucky had.

“Great,” said Steve. He sheepishly handed over his phone. “Here, you do it. It’ll take me an age to figure out how to add you to the darn thing.”

Bucky took it, a fancy, top-of-the-line latest-model Stark phone, and after a moment’s hesitation, programed in his number. “There you go,” he said, handing it back to Steve. “Now get out of here, I’ve got a job to do.”

Steve grinned, and walked out whistling.

Bucky was fucked. Truly and utterly fucked. He should have given Steve a fake number. He should have quit his job and disappeared the first time Steve showed up here. But he liked his job, and he didn't want to abandon Alicia; he wasn't sure the fiancé was the Prince Charming he was cracked up to be. And Steve needed him, and Bucky had never been able to resist that.

—

If Steve was hell-bent on following Bucky around like a lost puppy, at least Bucky could try and do some good with it. So when Steve called him that evening Bucky only hesitated for a moment before suggesting a trip to the art gallery. It was a success; Steve had barely had eyes for Bucky, he’d been so wrapped up in all the art. And then after, when they’d grabbed some food, he’d spent the whole meal doodling absent-mindedly on his napkin. Bucky’d never been so glad to be ignored by Steve in his life.

Bucky had no fucking clue how all this was going to end. He suspected badly, but until he could figure out how to shake Steve off, he’d do his level best to reacquaint Steve of the good things in life. Bucky had a mission now, his first in twenty-five years: remind Steve there was more to life than fighting. So he sent off a text, without really thinking too hard. _When was the last time you had a proper home cooked meal?_

 _1942_ , said Steve, a while later. _Too busy exploring the culinary opportunities of the 21st century. Also I’m a terrible cook._

That was an understatement. Bucky remembered with distaste Steve’s cooking nights, a sea of flavorless overboiled vegetables that he inexplicably managed to burn half the time. Bucky had put his foot down after just two months of living together, certain he’d come home one day to find the place on fire. “I’ll do the cooking and you can do the cleaning,” he’d said, and Steve had agreed readily enough.

 _Come round on Sunday and I’ll do us a roast chicken,_ Bucky sent back.

Throughout Bucky’s childhood his mother had cooked a roast on Sunday. Beef usually, because that was cheapest, and everybody apart from his father had had far more potatoes than meat, but it had been a point of pride for Bucky’s mother that, without fail, she put a roast on the table for her family every Sunday.

Sarah Rogers hadn’t a hope of achieving that goal; she hadn’t even tried. Keeping her son alive on her meager wages was hard enough without getting fancy about it. But Bucky used to drag Steve along to join the Barnes family dinner whenever he could, and Steve would eat Bucky’s ma’s roast potatoes with the most blissful expression on his face. Bucky wanted to see that expression again.

 _They still roast chickens?_ Steve replied. _How dull._

 _Not the way I do it buddy_ , Bucky said.

 _Alright then_ , said Steve. Bucky smiled. Then he looked around his apartment, and panicked.

In 2005, one of the local museums had had an exhibition. It was something about the war and Bucky hadn’t really cared, but there was an article in the paper about it, and as Bucky had skimmed past it his eyes had caught sight of his own name.

_The new temporary exhibition, ‘The War at Home’ is full of fascinating local war time ephemera, from the public – Office of War Information poster No. 37, left – to the intensely private, like the letter below, which Steve Rogers sent to his friend James ‘Bucky’ Barnes while Barnes was completing basic training. Rogers would later find his own way to the front as the heroic ‘Captain America’, but for the first six months of the war he was deemed unfit for service and remained here in Brooklyn. His letter is a remarkable insight into the difficulties faced by those who stayed behind._

Below was a picture of the letter, written in Steve’s large, even hand. Bucky traced the letters on the page with a shaky finger. _Bucky_ , it started, just like Bucky remembered.

 _Bucky_ ,

_Hope you’re doing okay. Hope they’re feeding you good. I’m sure the food can’t be worse than my cooking at least._

_You’ll be pleased to hear they turned me down for enlistment again. I even tried to sign on at one of the munitions factories, but they said I wasn’t strong enough to operate the machinery. Little Annie next door said her and all the other school kids are knitting socks for the soldiers, maybe they’ll let me help with that._

_Aw, heck. I promised myself I wouldn’t get bitter. I know basic’s probably not much fun, and you’ll be pissed as all hell that I can’t just be grateful that I’m safe at home._

_I can’t be though. It just don’t feel right, me sitting here twiddling my thumbs while you’re out there getting ready to risk your life._

_And, well, I miss you Buck. Our tiny place seems huge without you here, waltzing around the kitchen and leaving your clothes all over everything. It’s too tidy, and I’m lonely._ ~~_Cold too._~~

_This letter doesn’t seem to be getting any more cheerful, so I’ll leave it here. Sorry about the gloom. Write back and tell me all about training and I’ll promise not to moan so much in my next letter._

_Your pal, as ever,_

_Steve_

Bucky stared at the paper, furious. ‘Intensively private’, goddamn right it was! That was _his_ letter. Steve had written it for him, not the whole of fucking Brooklyn. How had they even got hold of it? Bucky cast his mind back, but he had no idea what he’d done with the letters Steve sent him during basic.

He had no idea what had happened to most of their stuff, come to think of it. Steve must have done something with it all before he left, but Bucky had other things on his mind when Steve showed up in a goddamn war zone. He hadn’t thought to ask what Steve had done with Bucky’s best suit and his collection of dog-eared paperbacks and all the other things that had once populated their one-room apartment.

Bucky squinted at the paper. _On loan from the Smithsonian_ , it said, next to Steve’s letter.

It didn’t take long for Bucky to discover that Steve had put everything they owned in a battered old trunk and left it with Mrs Herbert down the hall. It had sat in a corner of her apartment, collecting dust, until she died sometime in the 1970s. Then her son had sold it to an antique dealer, who had sold it to another antique dealer, who at sold it at auction, where the National Museum of American History had bought it for forty thousand dollars.

Looked like someone in Washington knew where all his fucking stuff was. Bucky, boiling with rage, decided to pay them a visit.

It was one thing to take all Steve’s things and put it in a museum. Everyone seemed to think that Captain America belonged to them; Bucky didn’t like it but he was pretty used to it by now. But Bucky’s stuff? Bucky’s stuff didn’t belong in a museum. He wasn’t a national hero. They had no right to it, and he was going to get it back.

So he broke into the museum vault. It had been a while since Bucky had done anything like that, but it wasn’t hard. The Winter Soldier’s skills were with him forever, it seemed, however little he used them.

It was all there, everything they’d once owned, catalogued and labeled and neatly shelved in a sterile, humidity-controlled room. Steve had clearly forgotten to put mothballs in the trunk, and something had eaten holes all through Bucky’s best suit. He left it for the conservators to play with. His books he took, and his battered old bakelite radio. A picture of his Ma and Pa on their wedding day, looking stoically Edwardian. A couple of snaps of him and Steve in the photobooth at Coney Island, pulling stupid faces and grinning at each other.

His army pack was there too, and all its contents, along with his spare uniform jacket and his rifle, which— Bucky didn’t even know how that would have got here. Steve must have picked it up off the train floor. “Hell of a souvenir, Stevie,” he muttered to himself, but he left the rifle where it was, and the jacket too. He picked through the contents of his pack and took the handful of letters from his sisters, his trusty lighter, lifted off a dead German, and the book he’d never got to finish.

Most of Steve’s stuff he left, not sure he had any more right to it than the museum, but he couldn’t resist flipping through Steve’s old sketchbooks. The view out their bedroom window, portraits of their neighbors and kids playing in the street, all interspersed with endless sketches of Bucky, looking young and whole and carefree. Bucky had been a cocky little shit in his youth, and it was so easy to see why, with all these sketches to remind him of the way Steve saw him. He was fully clothed in all of them, though, which wasn’t quite the way Bucky remembered it, but clearly Steve hadn’t thought those pictures appropriate to leave with Mrs Herbert.

He flipped a page and came face to face with Steve himself, a rare self-portrait. Steve had drawn himself accurately and honestly, his frame small and weedy, his face thin and pale. But his jaw was set, and his eyes stared defiantly out of the page. Bucky stared back for a long minute, and then carefully tore the page out of the book.

The next day he read the news headlines with smug satisfaction, as they declared: _‘MUSEUM BREAK IN: CAPTAIN AMERICA’S BELONGINGS RANSACKED_ ’.

He wasn’t feeling so smug now, with Captain America himself scheduled to come for dinner. He looked around his place. The radio sat on top of the fridge, all tuned up and working perfectly. The photo of his parents was framed and in the hallway, his old books were on the bookshelf, neatly arranged and interspersed with new ones. Most damning, of course, was the picture of Steve, tacked to the bedroom wall.

If Steve was coming round, all of this was going to have to go. He collected every trace of Bucky Barnes, packed it all up in a box and shoved it deep under his bed.

—

Steve came for dinner, and Bucky once more got to see the look of bliss on his face when he bit into a potato. He managed to worm some honest answers out of Steve, while deflecting Steve’s questions about his own life. Bucky had thought it was going well, all things considered.

And then Steve kissed him.

It was torture; too much and not enough all at once. When Steve pulled away, Bucky was almost certain it was Steve trying his hand at entrapment, an attempt to get Bucky to admit his true identity. He’d have said anything in that moment if it meant he wouldn’t have to let go of the feeling of Steve’s lips on his. But Bucky knew Steve well enough to know that if he had told the truth it probably wouldn’t have resulted in more kissing. A smack around the head and a demand for information Bucky wasn’t ready to share, more like. So he’d kept his mouth shut and agreed to be Steve’s friend instead.  

Bucky did his best to do a damn good job of it.

Bucky introduced Steve to microwave popcorn and all his favorite snacks of the future, and they made their way through the list of movies in Steve’s notebook. Halfway through Steve asked him, sadly, if only kids’ movies had singing these days, to which Bucky said ‘yes, thank god,’ but Steve had pouted, and somehow Bucky found himself selling his remaining limbs for tickets to _Wicked_. Spring came, and with it something that was almost sunshine, and Bucky found himself lying in grass at the park with Steve staring at him intently over the top of his sketchbook.

Bucky kept waiting for Steve to say something; to reveal the secret of Bucky’s true identity; to turn to him and say ‘I know you’re alive jerk, so cut the crap’. But Steve never slipped up; just kept on calling him Jimmy like he’d never heard any other name for him.

Bucky couldn’t understand it. Steve had need been afraid of confrontation before, had never been one for shying away from the truth. Bucky figured Steve was enjoying pretending. Pretending nothing bad had ever happened, pretending Bucky wasn’t someone he’d loved and lost, pretending their story began here, in the brightness of the twenty-first century, not the dinginess of the great depression, or the destruction of the Second World War. If he confronted Bucky, then he’d have to confront the past, confront whatever had happened in the intervening years, confront the fact that Bucky might not be who Steve wanted him to be.

But Bucky had no intention of letting Steve know the truth of that, so he didn’t call him on it.

Besides, Steve might keep calling him Jimmy out loud, but his eyes gave him away; he looked at Bucky the same way he always had. Bucky wondered what Steve was remembering, when he looked at him like that. Only the good stuff, no doubt. Steve was like that, rose tinted glasses always, even in a fucking war zone. But it was nice, seeing Steve smile again.

So Bucky played his part, kept answering to Jimmy, and tried to give Steve as many reasons to smile as he could. He took Steve out for tacos and bibimbap and pho. They went to a yoga class and Steve was annoyingly good at it, while Bucky spent the whole time grinding his teeth. They went to bars and Bucky tried and failed for the hundredth time in his life to get Steve to shoot a pool cue with passable accuracy.

They didn’t go dancing, but that was okay. Everything was okay. Everything was great even, until he got home and found a goddamn SHIELD agent in his kitchen.

—

Bucky was falling, falling out the window and he hated falling, and he didn't know if he was going to make it to the ground in one piece, hadn't done this in so long, but whatever knock-off supersoldier serum they'd given him was still good, apparently, and he was on the ground and he was running. It had been at least a decade since he'd so much as climbed a fence, but here he was, scaling walls and leaping between buildings like it was nothing. He lost the SHIELD agent after five blocks but he kept running, couldn’t stop. He didn’t know if he was running from SHIELD or from the look on Steve’s face, but he kept going, kept going until he was in Queens, miles from home, certain he wasn’t being followed. Then he stopped, finally, in front of an old electric substation.

He took a furtive look around, broke the padlock off the substation door with his metal hand, and slipped inside. He walked quickly past the humming banks of cables to a door with a keypad next to it, and punched in the code. It opened on a set of concrete stairs that led him down, under the substation. There was another door, thick steel this time, with a glowing blue pad next to it instead of keys. Bucky placed his flesh hand on the security pad. There was a click as the door unlocked and slow creak as it swung open, revealing a dim room beyond. There was a saggy-looking cot in the corner, a small kitchenette down one side, and a slightly-too-old computer with three bulky CRT monitors.

Bucky stepped through and shut the door firmly behind him. Then he collapsed, exhausted, against the door, adrenaline and whatever instinct had guided him here finally ebbing away. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of Steve, plaintive and confused, begging Bucky to deny everything.

This whole goddamn mess was Steve’s fault. Bucky had been doing just fine, but that damn asshole couldn’t leave well enough alone. Now SHIELD was on the tail of the Winter Soldier, and Bucky had had to leave his home and his job and hideout in an underground bunker. They either wanted to punish him for all that he’d done, or they wanted to make him do it again, for them. Probably both. All so Steve could spend a few months pretending his friend was back from the dead.

Steve’s face swam in front of him again, and Bucky hit his head against the door, sliding down onto the ground. Who was he kidding? He’d been pretending just as much as Steve was. He’d known this was all going to end in tears and instead of running as far as possible in the other direction he’d invited Steve round for dinner.

Bucky spread his palms flat on the ground, trying to let the coolness of the concrete ground him, but it didn’t stop his brain replaying the look on Steve’s face, when the SHIELD agent had told him who Bucky really was, when Bucky hadn’t denied it. He’d looked like something inside him was breaking. Bucky had done that; Bucky had always known this was going to end badly and, selfish as ever, he’d done it anyway.

Bucky had had so many chances over the years to give Steve up. All those girls before the war; Bucky could have married any one of them and stopped dragging Steve down into something that didn’t have a hope in hell of ending happily. Instead he’d kept one foot in the door and one foot out; kept on loving Steve, but only under cover of darkness, even though Steve belonged in the sunshine. And then Bucky had left, shipped out, and left Steve behind, and while he was standing on the deck of the ship watching New York get smaller and smaller, looking oh so dashing in his uniform, he’d got swept up by a brief surge of noble sacrifice, the thought that if he died, maybe Steve could move on, mourn him like a brother and then put him to rest like something he’d outgrown. But of course Steve had followed him, found him in that godforsaken Nazi hellhole where Bucky had discovered that dying was harder than it looked. Steve had got him out and Bucky had clung to him, held on tight all the way back to camp and all the way through the war, until, of course, he’d picked the most melodramatic moment to let go. And then legally, he’d been dead, and Steve had followed not long after, and yet here they fucking were; Bucky had done a half-assed job of leaving, again, and he’d broken Steve’s heart, again.

No more. Steve belonged in the sunshine, and Bucky had done things that meant he would always have to run and hide. It was time to let Steve go, once and for all.

Bucky got off the ground and went to check his surveillance equipment.

—

Bucky didn’t think he was actually all that paranoid, although it would be pretty understandable if he was. All his time down at the VA had taught him that, at least. He’d listened to the other guys telling their stories and he’d listened to the counsellors explain about trauma and PTSD, and he knew. He had a right to be paranoid. He had a right to be batshit fucking crazy. But he wasn’t. Sure, he had his bad days. He hated going to the barber and he’d probably never go to the dentist. But overall, he reckoned was doing okay, considering. He wasn’t crazy, and he wasn’t paranoid.

That didn’t mean he was fucking stupid, though.

So no, Bucky didn’t spent his days looking backwards over his shoulder or avoiding the windows. He only occasionally thought he saw his former handlers in the faces of people he passed on the street. But he did have a big fuck-off arsenal spread across three discrete locations, two safe houses and five safety deposit boxes, filled with cash. That was just common sense. You didn’t have to be a boy scout to believe in being prepared.

This bunker was the first of the two safe houses, a place he’d found when clearing the city of villainous super organisations. It had been long abandoned, so instead of destroying it he’d updated the security in case he ever needed a bolthole. He was pretty sure that it was small enough that it would take what remained of the Red Room and their friends a while to remember it was here, if they were ever looking for him, but right now he wasn’t worried. It wasn’t the Red Room looking for him, it was SHIELD, and SHIELD clearly had no idea it was here, or they’d have cleared it out themselves long ago.

Natasha had said SHIELD would try and recruit him if they caught him; Bucky reckoned that was an optimistic view of things, but it didn’t matter much. He didn’t want to work for them any more than he wanted to be tried for treason. It was better if Bucky disappeared; better for him, and better for Steve.

Bucky had security cameras set up so he could watch whoever approached the substation. He also used Steve’s password to access SHIELD’s files so he could keep track of what they had on him. Bucky wasn’t terrible with technology, considering his age; he could handle the internet and work a smartphone perfectly fine. But he wasn’t quite ‘intelligence agency’ good. The Winter Soldier’s technology training was more than twenty years out of date, so while he might be pretty deadly at bypassing the security on a Commodore 64, the state-of-the-art SHIELD firewall was probably beyond him. Luckily, though, Steve’s password was easy enough to guess. 09191893, Sarah Rogers’s birthday.

So. Bucky would hunker down here until SHIELD stopped combing the streets of New York for the Winter Soldier, and then he’d head out west maybe, or go south, somewhere Steve would never think to look for him. A farm, maybe; Steve knew how he felt about cows. He could go to South America. The Nazis had all managed to hide out down there, or so he’d heard; maybe he could too. For now, all he had to do was sit tight and watch.

It was easier said than done.

Bucky might still have been able to run like the Winter Soldier, but it turned out he'd completely lost the knack for doing nothing but mindlessly stare at surveillance footage for days at a time. Probably this should be considered progress, the successful decay of his programming — Bucky could practically hear Sam telling him emotions were healthy — but right now, with his mind reeling from the last days and months and _Steve_ , and nothing whatsoever to distract him, it didn’t feel so much like a change for the better. He didn't really wish for a return of the Soldier’s numb obedience, but he could do with some fucking inner peace.

Bucky remembered telling Steve to sort out his chakras. For a brief moment, he considered doing some yoga. Then he thought better of it and did a bunch of push-ups instead, cursing himself for not thinking to stock the place with some fucking books. He checked on SHIELD, but they still seemed to have nothing on him beyond a couple of hits he’d done in the seventies and the corner he’d lost their agent on, five blocks west of his apartment, so he played pinball on the ancient computer and tried desperately not to think about the bugs he’d placed in Steve’s apartment.

Bugs Bucky was good with; good old Cold War technology that hadn’t really changed all that much. They’d gotten smaller, the sound quality had gotten better, but they were basically the same things Nixon’s guys had planted at Watergate. And when Steve had invited him over to watch _Sleeping_ fuckin’ _Beauty_ , Bucky had taken the opportunity to stash a few around his apartment.

That maybe was paranoid, but Bucky reckoned he’d always been a bit paranoid when it came to Steve, and that was fair enough, given Steve’s tendency to throw himself headfirst into danger. Bucky hadn’t planned on listening; he’d just wanted to be able to check in if Steve ever got tired of hanging out with a guy who looked like his dead best friend. Bucky just wanted a way to know that was all it was, and not that Steve had been hurt or kidnapped or worse.

But he didn’t have the right to check on Steve now. If you were running away from someone you didn't get to look back and see how much damage you'd done.

His self-restraint lasted exactly five days. Five days of nothing but pinball and push-ups and the look on Steve’s face. On the sixth, he cracked.  Desperate to hear Steve’s voice, he tuned into the audio transmitter he’d left in Steve’s kitchen.

“— thought you were supposed to be able to help with this part,” someone hissed down the line. Not Steve. A woman’s voice. Natasha? “Provide _emotional support_ or whatever it is you do.”

“I’m not _magic_ ,” said another voice, also not Steve. A man this time, sounding slightly out of his depth. Familiar, too, although Bucky had more difficulty placing him. “I’ll talk to him when he comes out, but there's only so much I can do. This is way above my pay grade.”

Anxious, Bucky cycled through the channels, tuning into each of the different rooms to try and find Steve. There was nothing coming from the bedroom, the hallway or the balcony, but when he got to the bathroom there was a retching noise and the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up.

Bucky tensed. Was Steve sick? Steve wasn’t supposed to get sick, not any more. Bucky remembered the last time Steve threw up, before the war, sick with a nasty flu that he couldn’t shake. He’d not been able to keep anything down for days, and when Bucky’d gone to clean out the vomit-splattered basin he’d been horrified to find blood at the bottom.

Bucky banished the memory from his mind and tuned back into the conversation in the kitchen. Steve had probably just eaten something funny.

“—you sure this was a good idea?” the man was saying now.

There was a pause. “I thought he could handle it,” said Natasha. “Even if he can’t, Sam, he needs to know.”

“Yeah, but,” said the man – Sam. Wait, Bucky thought. That Sam? “Was it really necessary to give him the whole file? Show him the pictures?”

“You think there’s a nice way to tell him his BFF was a brainwashed assassin for the bad guys?”

Bucky breathed in sharply, almost choking on it.

“I guess not,” said Sam.

“He’s been living out some fantasy of his dead best friend miraculously coming back to life for the last three months. He needs to know the truth, even if it’s not so nice.”

Bucky wanted to turn off the transmission, but he couldn’t, he was frozen solid. Steve knew. He might not know the whole truth, but if he got his information from Natasha he knew far more than SHIELD did. Far more than Bucky’d been prepared for him to know.

Steve knew and he was in the bathroom throwing up, and Bucky couldn’t stop listening because he needed to know what that meant.

In the background there was the sound of a toilet flushing, followed by footsteps.

“Hey Steve,” said Sam, in a gentle voice. “How you doing?”

Bucky held his breath.

“I’m fine,” said Steve, and Bucky let out the breath in a rush. Steve was lying, Bucky could tell. He was using his stoic tough guy voice, which usually used to mean he was about five minutes to an hour from keeling over. Steve wasn’t fine, but it was still a relief to hear him talk.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to keep reading, Steve,” said Sam. “You don’t have to read it all at once. Or ever, if you don’t want to.”

“Yes, I do,” said Steve, and Bucky could _hear_ the clench in his jaw.

There was silence for a while, punctuated only by the faint sound of pages turning and quiet murmurs of distress. Steve was really _not_ fine, but just when Bucky thought he couldn’t bear to listen to it any more, Steve spoke.

“How did he get back here? America, I mean. New York. Brooklyn.”

How did he _get back here_? Steve read through whatever files Natasha had on the Winter Soldier and his first question wasn’t ‘how do we stop this monster?’ or ‘why did I let him into my house?’, but ‘how did he get back here?’ Fucking hell. Bucky should have known Steve was going to be stupid about this.

“Not sure,” said Natasha. Bucky chewed his lip. Trust Natasha to tell all of his secrets that mattered, and keep the ones that implicated her.

It should hurt, probably, that Natasha still thought he was dangerous, after their heart to heart, but Bucky knew Natasha well enough to know she was perfectly capable of wishing someone all the happiness in the world without ruling out the possibility she’d have to take them down. And that was good, really. Steve always saw the best in people; he needed someone on his side who could see the threat.

But no, Steve wasn’t having a bar of it. “Jimmy’s not dangerous,” he said, like the idea was ridiculous. Bucky wanted to shake him.

Sam tried, god help him, to explain exactly how fucked up this kind of psychological trauma could make someone. Yes, thought Bucky. And while you’re at it, get him to deal with some of his own. Steve was right, Bucky wasn’t a basket case, not any more, but it had taken him a fucking long time to get there.

“I understand,” said Steve.

“You really don’t,” said Bucky, but of course, Steve couldn’t hear him.

“Are any of the people who did this still alive?” said Steve.

“No,” said Bucky. “Jesus Christ, Steve, _no_ ,” but all Steve could hear was Natasha, and of course she was saying yes.

“Good,” said Steve. “Time for me to really start punching things.”

Bucky groaned and banged his head in his hands.

—

After that Bucky didn’t really have a choice. South America was going to have to wait. Steve was throwing himself into something stupid again, and Bucky was going to have to do what he always did, and follow him.

Once the idiots in Steve’s apartment have hammered out some semblance of a plan — Natasha had a few leads in Europe, apparently, so that’s where they were going to start, and Bucky was a fool for not remembering that Natasha had her own skin in this game too — once that was all sorted, Bucky headed through the door in the corner of the bunker that led to his armory.

He eyed the row of guns and ammunition with apprehension. Sure, Bucky might have a few weapons in strategic locations, but he hadn’t actually fired a gun in years. He went for a run in the park sometimes, because it helped clear his head, and he lifted enough weights to maintain decent muscle definition, or else his shoulder ached from the weight of his arm. But he’d deliberately avoided anything that felt like battle-training; he didn’t want to be a weapon anymore.

Bucky’d been prepared to hide in this bunker forever, rather than pick up a gun for SHIELD. But there’d always been things he’d do for Steve that he wouldn’t do for anyone else.

Bucky picked up a rifle and started packing a bag.

He followed Steve and his friends to Europe. Natasha was every bit as good as Bucky remembered, and it wasn’t long before she’d sniffed out a couple of bases for them to take down. Bucky stayed one step behind them; close enough to have Steve’s six, not close enough to be seen.

It was impressive, the trail of destruction they managed to leave across in their wake. But they were Avengers, after all; Bucky should have expected them to live up to their name. Because there was no doubt that’s what Steve was doing. Avenging Bucky.

It felt uncomfortable, watching Steve mete out retribution for the crimes against him. Like Bucky was some helpless innocent, a worthy inspiration for Steve’s righteous fury. A lost soul, a fallen hero, someone pure and incorruptible. Not a guy who’d turned into something as evil as his enemies. But Bucky didn’t know how to stop Steve, save from walking up to him and saying, ‘chill, pal, I’m here, I’m fine’. Bucky wasn’t going to do that, so he settled for keeping an eye on Steve’s six instead.

They fell into a routine. Steve and his friends found supervillian bases and attacked them, while Bucky watched over them with his rifle, crouched on top of a building, hiding in a tree, perched on the edge of a cliff. Steve didn’t seem to notice that sometimes his enemies fell before he even got to them, oblivious as ever to the real danger he was in. Once, bored of waiting for them to figure it out, Bucky shot the button that revealed the hidden door to the secret base, but Steve seemed to think he’d made the door appear just by frowning at it.

Once they were in, Bucky would follow them. Often the bases were ones Bucky had visited before, in his other life as the Soldier. When they were, Bucky would peel off, let his memory guide him to where the guards would be so he could take half of them out before they even knew Steve was there. The bases Bucky didn’t recognise were harder; he tried to stick close to the group then, reluctant to get too far away from Steve when he didn’t know where the bad guys were hiding, but it was a lot more difficult to surreptitiously save someone’s ass during a fight in a hallway or an elevator than it was out in the open. Bucky moved silently behind Steve, sticking close to the walls and doing his best to make sure no one snuck up on him.

Natasha knew he was there. She snuck up on him one day, or tried to, when he was keeping an eye on Steve through the open window of an abandoned third floor apartment, somewhere in Strasbourg.

“James,” she said, appearing behind him, as if from nowhere. Bucky didn’t jump, but it was a close thing. “What exactly are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Bucky said, pulling away from his rifle and looking at her over his shoulder. “I’m checking up on Steve. And don’t call me that.” He peered through his scope again. Steve was sitting in a parked car on the street below with Sam, staking out what Bucky was pretty sure was a long-abandoned Hydra base. “Only my Aunt Dot and Father O'Reilly call me James, and they’re both dead, so. Don’t.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Relax,” she said. “That base has been empty for years. I just wanted to keep them occupied while I had a chat with you.”

Bucky conceded that Steve didn’t look to be in any immediate danger and sat up, turning to face Natasha properly. “I thought you thought I was dangerous,” he said.

Natasha looked pointedly at his rifle. “You are,” she said. “But I’ve come to the conclusion you’re not dangerous to Steve.”

Bucky wished he could be sure of that himself. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Why are you following us?”

“I dunno,” Bucky said. “It’s like it’s hardwired. Steve does something stupid and I follow.”

“Steve’s fine.”

“He’s really not,” said Bucky. “What the fuck were you thinking, bringing him over here? And why do you have my VA counselor with you?”

“Sam Wilson’s your VA counselor?”

“Yes,” said Bucky, impatiently. “I look after my mental health.”

“Well you’re doing better than Steve,” said Natasha. “Steve told Sam he didn’t need a counsellor.”

Bucky snorted. “Steve needs to get over himself, is what he needs.”

Natasha’s mouth twitched in what Bucky read as amused agreement. “Apparently they came to a compromise.”

“What kind of compromise?”

“Don’t know,” said Natasha. “Don’t really care. All I know is they’re friends now and I don’t have to worry that Steve’s in imminent danger of a mental breakdown.” She inspected her nails as she spoke, as if bored by Steve’s emotional state. Her air of nonchalance was pretty convincing, but Bucky didn’t buy it. She was here because she cared about Steve. He had a way of doing that, getting under people’s skin, inspiring loyalty in the least likely of places.

“Doesn’t explain why he’s here,” Bucky said. “Doesn’t explain why any of you are here.”

“Sam’s here because Steve trusts him and he’s a good soldier.”

“And you?” Bucky demanded. Sam was a good soldier, and Bucky thought he probably trusted him too. But Steve could have all the best guys in the world behind him; it still didn’t change the fact that he shouldn’t be here at all.

“Steve asked us to help him track down the guys who hurt you,” Natasha said. She grinned. “It sounded like fun.”

“I can look after myself,” said Bucky, furious. “I don’t need you or Steve or anybody else to fight for my honor or whatever the fuck it is you think you’re doing here. I’m not some damsel in distress.”

 _“I’m_ just trying to clean up the streets,” Natasha said, with a shrug. “But I’m pretty sure Steve would say the same thing about all those fights you picked on his behalf way back when.”

“That was different,” said Bucky, hotly. “Firstly, I’m not asthmatic and liable to blow over in a stiff breeze, and secondly, I never picked them. He did that all on his own. I just stepped in to stop him getting killed.”

“Okay,” said Natasha, like she didn’t much care either way.

There was a brief silence. Bucky peered out the window, but Steve was still sitting patiently in the car below, waiting for an enemy that wasn’t coming. Bucky glanced back at Natasha and ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Why haven’t you told him?” he asked. “That I know who I am? You gave him the file, but you didn’t tell him that?”

Natasha laughed. “And deal with that emotional fallout on top of everything else?” she said. “Why would I do that?” She met Bucky’s eye and her expression softened slightly. “I gave him your file because he was going crazy with not knowing. But I’m not interested in getting bogged down in your interpersonal dramas, and knowing Steve Rogers, the drama that will arise when he finds out you lied to him about what you remember is going to be huge.”

Of course it fucking was, which is why Bucky had no intention of letting him find out. “So you’re not going to tell him I’m here?”

Natasha smiled. It was chilling; Bucky might be a killer, but he’d never toyed with his prey the way Natasha could. “I was thinking we could cut a deal,” she said.

“What kind of deal?” Bucky asked warily.

“I need some help finding the next base.”

“No,” said Bucky. “Not on your life. This whole expedition is ridiculous. Go home, Natasha.”

“What, so Steve can go back to moping and wearing out his knuckles in the gym?”

“Yes. He’ll get over it eventually.”

“I doubt that,” said Natasha. “But in that case, there's no point in me not telling him you're here.” She moved towards the window, making as if to whistle.

“Don't you fucking dare,” hissed Bucky.

“Or what?” said Natasha.

“Or you’ll find out just how dangerous I am. Steve might be above fighting dames, but I ain’t.”

Natasha laughed. “Look, Barnes,” she said. “Steve’s not going to give this up. You can help or not, but we’ll find the next base. Your intel might just make things go a bit smoother.”

Bucky ground his teeth. “This is all your fault.”

“It's not. You could stop him in an instant if you just talked to him.”

This was probably true. But— “Then what?” asked Bucky. “I just take Captain America on the run with me?”

“I doubt that’s the only option. But he'd go with you if you asked him,” said Natasha. “You know he would.”

“Steve would do a lot of stupid things, given the opportunity.”

Natasha spread her hands, palms up. “It’s up to you. But you’ve got a choice to make, because either I’m leaving here with information or I’m telling Steve exactly where his missing bestie is.”

“Fine,” Bucky gritted out. “Have you done Nice yet? There’s one in Nice.”

“Where in Nice?”

“I don’t know,” said Bucky. “There was a church nearby, that’s all I got.”

“Helpful,” said Natasha. “Alright, Nice it is. I could do with some sun.” She stalked off, and the Superhero Grand Tour continued.

—

They were in Croatia when it all went horribly wrong. Bucky thought he recognised the base, but when he climbed into the air duct he got turned around somehow. Instead of getting to the security control room to take out the two goons watching the cameras before they could spot Steve and raise the alarm, he ended up in an empty storage locker on the other side of the base.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” he swore, which is of course when an alarm started blaring and Hydra agents started swarming out of fucking crevice.

Bucky fought his way through, using his metal arm indiscriminately to clear a path for himself, but he had no idea where Steve was. He grabbed an agent by the neck and held him against the wall. “Where. Is. Captain. America?” he gritted out.

The agent looked terrified, but he just gasped, “Heil Hydra”. Bucky dropped him in disgust, hitting him with a solid punch to the temple, before continuing on.

It would help if he knew what Steve and his pals were trying to do here, but as far as he could tell, their only objective on these missions was to cause as much havoc as possible and maybe finish by setting off the base’s self-destruct sequence. Steve had a knack for setting off self-destruct sequences, often accidentally. It drove Bucky mental.

As if Steve could hear his thoughts, a new alarm joined in with the cacophony of klaxons already screaming, and a calm robotic voice announced “ _Self-destruct sequence initiated. Please evacuate the building. Self-destruct sequence initiated. Please evacuate the building.”_

“That wasn’t a fucking suggestion, Stevie,” Bucky said, exasperated. But he finally spotted the security control room, its door wide open, revealing a bank of computer monitors. Bucky scanned it quickly and was relieved to spot Steve in the bottom left hand corner, headed, thankfully, for the exit.

Bucky’s relief was short-lived, however, when he noticed that Steve was carrying what looked like a wounded Sam, and they were moving slowly. Steve was struggling to fight off the hordes of Hydra agents with Sam in his arms, and they were still two floors below ground.

_“Self-destruct sequence initiated. Please evacuate the building.”_

Bucky cursed. He searched the monitors desperately for the Black Widow and found her on the other side of the base, near the south-west exit. Natasha was locked in a battle with about four different agents, but she looked like she could handle it. Bucky hurried after Steve.

When he rounded the corner he saw Steve had clearly done his best. Unconscious Hydra goons littered the corridor, but there were still three standing. Sam was slumped against the wall, unconscious as well (or so Bucky hoped), where Steve had clearly put him carefully down so he could fight. Steve himself was on the ground, one of the goons standing over him with a gun pointed at his head.

“So this is how Captain America dies,” the goon sneered, in a heavily accented voice. “Not with a bang, but a whimper.”

Bucky shot him, a clean shot to the head. “The building is set to explode, I think there's going to be a pretty big bang,” he said, rolling his eyes. He shot the other two as well, before they had time to react, and then ran over to Steve.

“I swear Stevie, I might have killed a lot of people, but I never spouted bullshit like that while I did it,” he said, but he should have known things were bad if Steve was on the ground.

Steve had already been shot, at least three - no, four times, and there was a thin line of blood trailing down from his mouth. His eyes were struggling to focus, and he looked up at Bucky with confusion on his face.

_“Self-destruct sequence initiated. Please evacuate the building.”_

“Bucky?” said Steve, and then he passed out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! It was just supposed to be a short chapter to wrap things up but then it turned out I had more to wrap than I thought. Endings are bloody hard!
> 
> Thank you for all your comments so far. I treasure every one.

Steve woke up to a hazy feeling of pain and a faint murmur that sounded like it could be someone praying. His head pounded, and so did his chest. He hurt all over, actually. He hoped they weren’t giving him the last rites again; he felt bad, but he’d definitely felt worse, and he always felt a little sheepish when Father O’Reilly went to all that trouble for nothing.

He shifted, and the murmuring abruptly stopped. He blinked open his eyes. It wasn’t Father O’Reilly, just Bucky, looking tired. Steve smiled. _Bucky._ He felt surprised to see Bucky, but he couldn’t say why. Steve was sick, so of course Bucky was here.

Steve moved to sit up, but was met by a solid hand gently but firmly pushing him back down.

“Oh no you don’t. You were shot five times Steve, don’t even fucking think about getting out of that bed.”

Bucky’s face was twisted into a familiar scowl, reminiscent of all the other times Steve had almost got himself killed. Steve was always pleased to see that scowl, because it was proof he hadn't gotten himself killed, and whatever Bucky might think, Steve wasn't in a hurry for that. But then Steve also vaguely remembered thinking that maybe seeing Bucky’s face again would be his reward for dying. Both of those things couldn’t be true; Bucky a reward for dying, Bucky a reward for living; but he couldn’t quite figure it out through the fog of whatever they’d given him for the pain. It didn’t matter; Bucky was here. Steve smiled beatifically. “Bucky,” he said.

Bucky ignored him. “ _Five times_ , Steve. Five! What would have happened if I hadn’t been there, huh? Sometimes I think you ain’t got the sense god gave a goddamn goose.”

Steve settled back into the pillow, letting Bucky’s admonishments wash over him. “But you were there, Buck,” he said with a sleepy smile. “Always watching my back.” He reached up and pulled down Bucky’s hand from his shoulder, tangling it with his own. Nothing made much sense, but he was finding it hard to be bothered about it. They must have given him the good stuff.

“You’re a goddamn fool,” said Bucky, but his tone was softer, and he didn't pull his hand away from Steve's. With his other hand he reached down and pushed the morphine button twice and Steve felt the pain in his chest fade into something nicer. “Go back to sleep,” Bucky said.

“Mmm,” said Steve. He should get up, he was fine really. His chest didn’t even hurt anymore, and Steve never liked staying in bed when he didn’t have too. But then Bucky was doing his mother hen act and when he got like this it always took a lot of convincing before he’d let Steve up. Besides, Steve was so very comfortable.

“Glad you’re here, Buck,” he said. “Missed you.” It was true, Steve knew, even if right now he couldn’t say why. He could sense the feeling of missing Bucky hovering just on the edge of his consciousness, but at the moment he couldn’t think of a time when Bucky hadn’t been by his side. He decided to ignore it; wherever Bucky might have gone, he was back.

Bucky didn’t say anything, but his eyes crinkled at the corners and he gave Steve’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“I think I’m just going to have a little nap,” said Steve, his eyes seeming to close of their own accord, but then, hit with a sudden inexplicable fear that Bucky might not be there when he woke up, he forced them open again. “Don’t go anywhere though,” he said, unable to explain the urgency of his fear.

“I won’t,” promised Bucky, and of course, that was right, Bucky wouldn’t leave him. Steve let his eyes fall shut, and drifted off.

—

Bucky sat in the chair by Steve’s bed, watching him sleep with a familiar sense of relief. He was no stranger to watching Steve skirt death: the winter of ‘37 Bucky’d been told to call the priest every other week, it felt like, and of course there was the war, where Steve had literally walked around with a bullseye on his back. But it had been a long time since Bucky had had to fear for Steve’s life and he was out of practice, overwhelmed by the intensity of the terror that had gripped him.

Getting Steve out of that base was a blur; all Bucky remembered was slinging Steve over one shoulder and Sam over the other, and getting the hell out of there. He didn’t remember the route out, or whether they saw anyone on the way. Instinct had taken over entirely, instinct and adrenaline, and they’d made with seconds to spare before the whole place blew.

He did remember staring at Steve bleeding out on the dirt, and feeling helpless, and furious, because Bucky could shoot a man from three thousand yards and put a rifle together in seconds but he couldn’t do anything more for a bullet wound than apply pressure, and that was something he’d learnt in 1942. They’d taken so much of him when they turned him into the Winter Soldier, and yet they hadn’t bothered to give him anything useful. The Soldier was only trained to take lives, not to save them, and right now he couldn't help feeling like it had been nothing more than just a colossal waste of his time.

He remembered pulling the earpiece out of Sam’s ear and desperately trying to reach Natasha. He remembered Natasha appearing, taking one look at Steve and saying, “I need to call it in, Barnes,” and Bucky remembered being hit with a sinking feeling that the end of the line was finally coming, either for him or for Steve, and he didn’t want it to be Steve, so he nodded, and the next thing he remembered was a goddamn Black Hawk landing amongst the rubble to airlift them out to the US Army hospital in Landstuhl, Germany.

Next thing Bucky knew he was here, panic clawing inside him as he watched over Steve’s sickbed yet again. The first few hours Bucky’d been forced to wait in the corridor while they operated on Steve, and he remembered that all too clearly. Sitting on a plastic chair, starting at a white wall, Natasha emotionless beside him, as all the adrenaline ebbed away and the rapid stream of curses in his head started to slow, replaced by darker, more coherent thoughts.

He found himself praying for the first time in years, unsure whether it was a last vestige of true faith or a kneejerk reaction to the smell of antiseptic and Steve in danger. He wondered if Steve still believed in God. Bucky didn’t think he did himself, but then, here he was, haltingly running through the Hail Mary. Surely if there was anyone up there who still had an ear for him it would be her? Surely if there was anyone worthy of her intervention it would be Steve?

Bucky wasn’t sure the idea of an ‘up there’ was as comforting as it had once been. If it did exist, then that meant his own Ma was watching and there was just too much Bucky had done that he didn’t want her to see. He carefully didn’t think about the possibility that Steve might join her, wherever she was, because that was… that was just too much, the thought of them both hovering over him, watching his every sin.

Eventually a doctor had come out and told them that whatever they’d been doing in there had been a success, and Steve was going to be okay. Bucky hadn’t been entirely able to believe it, not even when he saw Steve again with his own eyes, unconscious but whole. Not until Steve woke up and smiled his sleepy, slightly out-of-it smile at Bucky; the same one that had always been the first sign he was on the mend. Bucky had never been sure before if Steve smiled because he knew he’d cheated death again, or simply because he opened his eyes and saw Bucky.

Steve had been pretty out of it still, but he’d called him Bucky, not Jimmy, and Bucky realised it was the first time he’d been called his own name since he’d taken that ill-advised dive out of a train seventy years ago. It had been so long down the list of things he’d lost that he hadn’t even thought he’d cared, but then he heard his name said aloud, heard _Steve_ say it, and for the first time in decades, Bucky felt like there was somebody who really knew him for who he was.

Of course, Steve didn’t know shit, really. The drugs they’d given him were strong, and Bucky was pretty sure Steve had no idea what decade it was, let alone any of the truths he’d learnt about his friend. Bucky hadn’t got a clue what he was going to say when Steve woke up properly, but Steve had called him by his name and asked him to stay and Bucky was going to do just that, even if he wasn’t quite sure of the welcome he’d get once Steve was more lucid.

Unfortunately, there was a man headed down the corridor towards Steve’s room who looked like he might have other ideas, a heavily-armed gaggle of flunkeys behind him. Bucky slipped into the corridor, hoping to avoid disturbing Steve’s rest with any nasty scenes. Natasha looked up from where she was sitting on a chair nearby, nursing a coffee in a polystyrene cup. Her face was pale, but expressionless.

Bucky crossed his arms and studied the group approaching him. The goons were clean-cut, government issue; special ops of some kind. The man was anything but, an eye patch over one eye, and a battered looking face, steely with determination. Bucky was pretty sure he knew who that was.

Bucky shot another look at Natasha. There was a brief flicker of something that might have been nerves, or possibly guilt, but then her expression smoothed back to nothing, and she shrugged. Them’s the breaks.

And that was it, really. Bucky had known this was only going to end one way as soon as he agreed to let Natasha call for help — pretty much as soon as he’d scooped Steve up off the floor of that base. There was no way five bullet holes in Captain America would escape SHIELD’s notice; too valuable an asset. Bucky had just been hoping for a bit more time.

But it couldn't be helped. He squared his shoulders, making sure he was blocking Steve’s doorway as fully as possible, and watched the group advance towards him. The man with the eyepatch stopped abruptly in front of him.

“You must be Natasha’s boss,” Bucky said. “Fury, right?”

“That’s me,” said the man. “I’m guessing you’re Jimmy Binns.”

“Nice to meet ya,” said Bucky, but he didn’t uncross his arms. “You here to see Steve? Personally, when I visit the sick I bring grapes, not guns.”

Fury gritted his teeth. “I wouldn’t want to disturb the good Captain’s rest,” he said. “But we’ve got a few questions for you, Jimmy. I think it’s best you come with us.”

“That sounds like a fucking terrible idea, actually,” said Bucky. “Besides, I ain’t leaving Steve.”

There was a sudden clatter as every single one of Fury’s men pointed their weapons at Bucky. “Are you sure?” said Fury.

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Just when I thought we were going to be pals,” he said. “Nah, I told Stevie I’d stay, and me and him need to have a chat about a couple of things. But I’ll do you a deal. You leave me alone until he wakes up properly, let me say goodbye, and I’ll come quietly.”

“Now, why would I agree to that?” said Fury.

“Cos,” Bucky said. “Either I’m a good man, and I’ll stick to my word, or—” Bucky uncrossed his arms, and the metal one glinted in the light “—I’m not a good man, in which case I’d have no problem wreaking untold havoc on this hospital full of civilians in my attempt to get away.”

“Is that a threat, soldier?” said Fury, his voice icy.

“Nope,” said Bucky. “It’s a promise. Give me a chance to say goodbye to Steve and I promise I’ll come easy.”

Fury looked him over, his one visible eye narrowing. After a moment, he gave a small, curt nod, and the circle of guns retracted. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s the deal. You have exactly one hour after Captain Rogers wakes up, and then you come with us. But if you resist at that point, I won’t hesitate to use all necessary force to bring you in.”

“So long as he’s lucid,” said Bucky. “Then you got it. No force necessary.”

—

The second time Steve woke up, his head was clearer and the pain was sharper and he didn't want to open his eyes. He was so tired, tired of waking up to a world that wasn't right. He just wanted to stay in his dreams with Bucky a little longer. Hadn't he earned that yet?

He tried his best to cling to sleep, to the place where Bucky was alive and well, but the pain in his chest was blooming, becoming harder and harder to ignore, and there was a steady beeping noise somewhere behind his head, the kind he’d come to associate with waking up in twenty-first century hospitals. He’d never figured out why modern medical equipment had to be so goddamn noisy all the time; it seemed incredibly counterproductive.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

“Jimmy,” Steve said, and it all came flooding back to him. Bucky, alive and well, but not Bucky, because that was definitely Jimmy slouched over Steve’s legs, long hair scraped back in a greasy bun, metal hand resting inches from Steve’s thigh.

Jimmy turned his head and blinked up at him. “Steve,” he said, straightening up. “You’re awake.”

“Where are Sam and Natasha?” Steve said, because the last he remembered Sam had been unconscious and Nat had been nowhere to be seen, and he could deal with the sudden presence of Jimmy once he knew his friends were all right.

“They’re fine,” said Jimmy in a gentle tone. “Well, Sam’s got a broken leg, but the doctor set it no sweat. He’s somewhere getting a fancy cast put on.”

Steve swallowed, a mix of guilt and relief swirling inside. It could have been worse. He thought it was going to be worse; he thought they might not make it out of there at all. But it was his fault they’d been in danger, and Sam had still got hurt, even if it hadn’t been as bad as it could have been. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Germany,” said Jimmy, with a grin. “Bet you never thought you’d be pleased to hear that, huh?”

Steve stared at him. Jimmy was still smiling, eyebrow cocked. Steve didn’t understand why he was here, or where he’d come from, or why he was making jokes instead of explaining himself. He’d jumped out of that window; he’d run away from Steve. Steve hadn’t dreamed that. But here he was, pretending like nothing had happened. Semi-successfully: Jimmy was smiling, but Steve could see the way his eyes were flickering with uncertainty, the dark circles underneath them, the way the fingernails on his right hand were bitten to the quick. Jimmy might not know it, but Steve knew him, and he could see right through him.

“No,” agreed Steve slowly. “Jimmy. What are you doing here?”

A hurt look flashed across Jimmy’s face, but he quickly schooled it. “Oh, it’s Jimmy again, is it?”

“What?” said Steve, confused.

“It’s just that’s not what you were calling me yesterday,” said Jimmy.

Steve flushed. He’d thought that was a dream. The confusion was understandable, though, he thought, especially now he knew for certain Bucky was hidden in there somewhere. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I got a bit confused, I was on enough painkillers to dose a baby elephant—”

“A hippo, actually,” said Jimmy.

“Is that more or less than a baby elephant?” Steve said, grateful for the distraction.

“Well that depends on how old the elephant is, doesn’t it?” said Jimmy. “Baby elephant’s pretty imprecise.”

“Okay,” said Steve, unsure of where to go from there.

Jimmy sighed. “Budge up,” he said, clambering onto Steve’s bed. There wasn’t really room for the two of them, but somehow Jimmy managed to fit himself in around Steve’s various tubes without jostling any injuries. He tucked his head into Steve's shoulder and took a deep breath, and then said, “I don't want to have this conversation either.”

“What conversation?” said Steve.

Jimmy lay there, not saying anything. “The one where you try and tell me who I really am and I have to confess I knew all along,” he eventually said.

Steve jerked sideways, and then winced as he jolted his wounds. He stared at Jimmy, struggling to comprehend. “You knew?” he said. “You knew, as in you figured it out somehow, or you knew as in you remember?”

“The second one?” said Jimmy sheepishly. Not Jimmy, Steve realised. Just Bucky. Bucky looking up at him with the same guilty expression he’d worn when a girl had seen him stepping out with someone else or his ma had caught him in a lie. This whole time it had just been Bucky.

“You remember?” said Steve, incredulously. “You remembered everything, all this time?”

“Well, no,” said Bucky. “There was definitely a period between 1947 and 1992 where I didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on.”

Steve ignored this, because if he thought about the horror Bucky had been through he'd start feeling guilty, and he didn’t want to do that because he was furious. “This whole time,” he said. “This whole time, I’ve been thinking you don’t remember me and you’ve been what, messing with me?”

Bucky sat up, scowling. “Oh no, Steve, you found me and I didn’t just fall at your feet,” he said. “Boo-fucking-hoo. I remembered you before I remembered my own fucking name, and guess what bud, it was 1991 and you’d fucking crash-landed your plane in the goddamn Arctic.”

“You lied to me,” said Steve. He couldn’t believe it. He’d known it was Bucky from the very first moment he’d seen him, but it had never crossed his mind that he might just be pretending not to remember. “I was awake for eighteen months before I even went into that store, _grieving_ for you, and you didn’t think to pop by and tell me you were all right?”

“I was awake for _twenty years_ before they found you!” Bucky said, scrambling out of the bed in anger. He wasn’t as careful as he had been getting in, tugging on Steve’s iv and kicking his ankles. “And as soon as they did, you started picking fights with fucking _aliens_!”

If Steve had any doubt left that it really was Bucky, it was quickly evaporating. The whole time he’d been pretending ( _pretending!)_ to be Jimmy, he’d been restrained, almost polite, but this was the real Bucky all right. Nobody else could fill Steve with such an irrational, intense anger, not since they were nine and fighting over who got to be the hero in their alleyway games. Nobody else on the goddamn planet could push Steve so quickly to the point of wanting to throttle him.

Bucky was standing next to the bed now, looming over him, so Steve sat up himself, squaring his shoulders and jutting out his chin, ignoring the pain in his chest and gut. “I was fine, Buck,” he said. “I’m not some sickly kid that you have to watch over any more.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re just fine,” hissed Bucky. “You’ve got five bullet holes in you and if it wasn’t for me there’d be another, right between your eyes, but I can see you’re settling in for a nice long life.”

“This isn’t about me,” said Steve. So Steve was injured, it didn’t give Bucky the right to be an asshole. “This is about how you _lied_.”

“Of course it’s about you, you sanctimonious fucking bastard,” Bucky said. “Jesus Christ, you and your goddamn morals. You want to know why I didn’t come find you? Maybe it was because I didn’t want to get reattached to someone who was just going to go out and fucking martyr himself all over again.”

“Oh yeah?” said Steve. “Then why did you follow me over here, huh? I didn’t ask for you to rescue me, Bucky.”

Bucky closed his eyes in a ‘god give me strength’ attitude that had always particularly annoyed Steve. “You didn’t ask me to come to Europe and rescue you,” he said. “Fucking hell Steve, you can’t see the irony in that?”

Steve didn’t say anything, unwilling to concede the point. He hadn’t gone to Europe to rescue Bucky, anyway. He’d just happened to be there when Bucky had needed rescuing.

“Fuck it,” said Bucky. “You’re right. This was a mistake. I should go.”

“Yeah,” said Steve, bitterly. “Run away, again.”

“Just because you can’t back down from a fight, Steve, doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t know when to walk away,” spat Bucky, and he turned on his heel and left.

Steve threw his pillow after him, which, of course, missed. Bucky just threw a withering glance over his shoulder and kept walking, leaving Steve alone and furious and without a pillow.

—

Bucky was seething when he left Steve’s room, but with every step he took the heat of it  seemed to fade away, and once he’d rounded the corner it had almost gone completely.

He slumped against the corridor wall, drained. He hadn’t meant to pick a fight with Steve, but the guy was infuriating, the way he expected everyone to live up to his ridiculous moral code. Steve always thought he had everything figured out in perfect black and white; he’d never been able to see that most things were actually shades of grey.

“I’m Steve and I cannot tell a lie, no siree,” Bucky muttered. “I’m all about truth, justice and propping up the military industrial complex with my self-sacrificing idiocy.”

That wasn’t really fair; Steve would definitely disapprove of the military industrial complex if anyone had bothered to fill him in on what it was. That was part of the problem; Steve had come from a time when the bad guys were easy to spot and then he’d suddenly ended up here, where things were more complicated; where the bad guys might well turn out to be your best friend.

Perhaps the fight was for the best; Bucky wasn’t sure he was ever coming back from whatever conversation Fury wanted to have with him. This way maybe he saved Steve some heartbreak. Now Bucky had reminded Steve what a pain in the ass he could be, Steve was probably going to be a lot less upset than if he’d lost the strange, noble version of Bucky that grief had concocted in his head.

Bucky look around, eyes settling on the closest of Fury’s men. Steve was going to be so pissed when he found out how many people were out here guarding him. The one standing nearby was watching Bucky with a nervous expression, as if he was terrified that Bucky was going to do something that would require him to engage. Bucky raised his hands. “Okay pal,” he said. “I’m ready. Take me to your leader.”

He’d always wanted to say that.

He was handcuffed and led out to a waiting van. Two of Fury’s men followed him in, looking just as nervous as the one Bucky had surrendered to. They sat down on the seat opposite Bucky, and the van moved off.

The windows were blacked out, so instead of watching the scenery, Bucky studied his guards. They were just kids, really. The one on the right had goddamn pimples, and was studiously avoiding eye contact. The other was even younger, and kept looking over at Bucky with an awed expression and then looking away, clearly scared of being caught staring. Both of them carried assault rifles and wore full body armor. Bucky wished the sight of kids with guns was less familiar.

Bucky cleared his throat. “I’m ninety-eight per cent sure I didn’t kill Kennedy,” he said, on the off chance it made them feel better. “Ninety-nine, even. I’ve studied the footage and if it was me I’m pretty sure I would have hit him with the first shot.”

The one on the right with the pimples gave Bucky an alarmed look that made it clear this information did not make him feel any better. The one on the left took advantage of the opportunity to stare openly at Bucky.

“Are you really Bucky Barnes?” burst out Lefty, clearly unable to contain his curiosity any longer.  

“ _Kevin_ ,” Pimples hissed. “You can't just ask him if he's Bucky Barnes.”

There it was again. His real name. Bucky’s mouth went dry with a feeling he couldn’t quite name, but he swallowed it down.  “Sure you can, Kevin,” he said. “James Buchanan Barnes, at your service.” He flashed Kevin a smile. “I’d salute, but you got me all tied up.”

“Oh my god,” said Kevin. “My dad’s gonna freak, he’s always going on about how you’re the real hero of the Howling Commandos.”

Bucky chuckled. “Oh yeah, you going to tell him you arrested me?”

“Hell no,” said Kevin. “He’d think I was a traitor or something. But I’m sure all this is just a technicality, you’ll have it cleared up in no time.”

“Oh, no doubt,” said Bucky.

Pimples snorted. Bucky raised his eyebrows, and he stopped, quickly.

“What’s Captain America really like?” asked Kevin, eagerly.

His companion rolled his eyes. “Kevin, you’ve met Captain America.”

“Drew, I don’t know what lies you’ve been telling your girl, but guarding a door that Captain America walked through once doesn’t count as _meeting_ him.”

Pimples scowled. Bucky smirked. “Captain America,” he said, “is a goddamn pain in the ass.”

—

“So let me get this straight,” said Sam, who’d settled into the vacated seat by Steve’s bed with a pack of cards. “This man that you told me was the love of your life, the man that we came over here to avenge, the man you thought had forgotten you, he told you that he remembered everything perfectly, and you… picked a fight?”

Steve closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said.

“You wanna talk me through your thought process on that one?”

“I didn’t really think.”

There was a snort from the end of the bed, where Natasha sat, flicking through a pile of magazines.

“He lied to me!” said Steve.“All this time, I’ve been missing him, and he’s been right there!”

Sam dealt the cards and didn’t say anything.

“He’ll be back,” said Steve. He looked down at his cards, not really seeing them. Bucky always came back, in the end. “He's no good at holding a grudge, not like —” Steve chewed his lip.

“Not like you?” said Sam.

“Yes,” conceded Steve. “Not like me.” They’d fight, but Bucky was always the one to crack first, his easygoing nature incapable of staying mad for long. He'd sulk for an hour, maybe two, and then he’d get bored and come slinking back to cajole Steve into a better mood. Sometimes, when he knew he really was the one at fault, he’d bring Steve a box of pencils or a candy bar; try and make nice. But mostly Bucky would just sling his arm around Steve's shoulder and say “I'm sorry Stevie, you coulda taken him for sure. Now let's get a drink,” and Steve would be grateful enough not to have to be the one to apologize that he’d pretend not to hear the lie. Except it had been five hours now, and there was no sign of Bucky.

“You ever have someone,” he asked Sam, “and fighting was just like breathing? Because you knew they'd always forgive you?”

“Yeah, Steve,” said Sam. “I think some folks just call that family.”

That sounded about right, Steve thought. He sighed. “I could never really convince myself he was gone,” he said. “I used to have imaginary conversations in my head with him, think about what I would say to him if he was here. And then he was, and it turned out all I wanted to do was wack him with my pillow.”

Sam laughed. “You just picked up where you left off,” he said. He put a card down on the pile between them.

“I guess,” said Steve, playing his own card. He’d acted on instinct, really, because the whole thing had felt like waking up from a bad dream. Of course Bucky’s death had just been a nightmare; in the real world, he was fine. But it was starting to hit him now, what it all meant. It really had been a miracle after all, of sorts. After all they’d done to him, Bucky was still Bucky, and instead of rejoicing, Steve had been boneheaded enough to drive him away completely.

“Gin,” said Sam.

Steve threw down his cards in disgust.

“I’m sure he’ll be back Steve,” said Sam.

Natasha flicked through her magazine, not saying anything. Steve looked at her, struck with a sudden foreboding. “You know something, don’t you?” he said.

Natasha pursed her lips. “Natasha,” said Steve.

She considered him for a moment, then sighed. “He’s not coming back,” she said. “He turned himself in.”

“What?” said Steve. “To who?”

“Fury.”

Steve immediately started to climb out of bed. “Whoa, Steve,” said Sam. “You’re not supposed to stand up, remember?”

Steve ignored him. “He didn’t do anything!” he said to Natasha.

“He did,” said Natasha. “Whether he can be said to be responsible for it is another matter.”

Steve stood up, swaying slightly. Sam caught him before he fell over completely, staggering slightly himself on his one good leg. “Come on Steve,” Sam said. “We can get a message through to Fury, if you want. But you need to stay in bed.”

“I can’t,” said Steve. “Bucky’s innocent, I need to get him out of wherever they’re keeping him.”

“Get back in bed, Steve,” said Natasha. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Steve rounded on her. “Is that why you’re here?” he demanded. “Did Fury put you here to stop me from going after Bucky?”

Natasha’s normally dispassionate face flared with sudden anger. “I’m here, Steve,” she said, her voice scathing, “because you asked me to come with you on your personal quest for atonement, even though it may well have cost me my job. Now sit down, before you knock Sam over.”

Steve slumped back onto the bed. “Sorry,” he said, ashamed. Natasha had risked a lot to help him. Steve knew how much Fury’s trust mattered to her and yet he'd taken for granted her willingness to sacrifice it. “Sorry, I'm — Bucky was right, I am a sanctimonious bastard.”

“You can be,” said Natasha, but her mouth twitched in a way which indicated Steve might be forgiven.

“He just turned himself in?” Steve asked, voice small.

Natasha sighed and put down her magazine. “He did a deal with Fury,” she said. “He’d go quietly if Fury let him stick around until you woke up.”

Steve glowered. “But you saw that file! They made him do those things. He didn't have a choice.”

“It certainly indicates Barnes’ actions were beyond his control,” said Natasha. “But that file also makes it clear that the Winter Soldier is capable of posing a serious danger to national security. I gave Fury the file and I told him what I think. But Fury’s going to come to his own conclusions.”

That wasn’t good enough, Steve thought. There was only one conclusion Fury could possibly draw, and that was that Bucky was innocent, and deserved to go home to his quiet, comfortable apartment, and his unpleasant cat; to the life he’d been living peacefully for the last decade. And to Steve too, if that’s what he wanted.

“Excuse me,” said Steve loudly, trying to get the attention of the guard someone had unnecessarily stuck on the door to his hospital room. “Excuse me,” he repeated, louder this time, always a believer in dogged politeness, and the man shifted slightly, confused, and turned to look at him.

“What on earth are you doing?” whispered Sam.

Steve ignored him, and beckoned to the guard. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, with a false smile. “But I need to talk to Director Fury. Urgently.”

“Um,” said the man. He wasn’t SHIELD, just a regular soldier. A coporal, by his insignia, and suitably cowed by the prospect of Captain America.

“On the phone would be fine,” said Steve, smile still fixed in place.

The soldier looked mortified. “Sir, I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is,” he said.

The urge to punch something was reaching overwhelming heights. “All right then,” said Steve, through gritted teeth. “Just send me whoever’s in charge.”

“Jesus, Steve,” said Sam. “I always thought you were one of those officers who didn't like throwing their weight around.”

Steve watched the retreating back of his guard hurry down the corridor. “I just like to save it for when it's really necessary,” he said.

—

They put Bucky in an empty interrogation room and left him there to sweat for a few hours. He expected worse, to be honest, but it was still more time than he wanted to have with his own thoughts. He supposed he’d have to get used to it; there could only be more to come.

Fury came sweeping in at around the four hour mark, the SHIELD agent who’d showed up in Bucky’s kitchen close behind. Fury looked Bucky up and down, eyes catching on where Bucky was shackled to the table. “Are those cuffs actually doing anything, or are they just purely aesthetic?” he asked.

Bucky considered this. The chain between the cuffs was barely more than a quarter inch thick; he could easily break it apart. He’d had to resist doing it while he was waiting, when the itch on the tip of his nose had got almost too much to bear. “I guess they’re giving me the opportunity to demonstrate my willingness to cooperate,” he said.

“Right,” said Fury, and he gestured through the one-way mirror for someone to come let Bucky out.

Once Bucky’s hands were free, Fury sat down opposite him. So did the agent. “Jimmy, this is Maria Hill,” said Fury in a business-like tone. “She’ll be helping me conduct this interview today.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Bucky, massaging his right wrist. It had been a while since he’d last been in handcuffs; he’d forgotten how uncomfortable it was.

“And I’m Nicholas Fury, as you know. Now, could please you state your name for the record?”

Bucky looked at him. Fury smiled benignly back. Bucky got the sense Fury was not normally a man who smiled, benignly or otherwise.

“Bucky Barnes,” Bucky said. Every time he said his name aloud it felt like something inside himself started to knit itself back together. Right now it was probably just going to get him in a world of trouble, but if he was going to come clean he might as well go all the way. “Sergeant, last I checked,” he added. “Although that was a while ago now.”

If Fury was surprised he didn’t look it. “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes has been missing in action since 1944,” said Hill.

“Well,” said Bucky. “Looks like you found me.”

“Looks like we did,” said Fury. “Kevin tells us you didn’t kill Kennedy.”

Bucky smiled. “Kevin’s a good kid,” he said.

“You’re not a suspect in the president’s assassination.”

Bucky let out a deep breath. He didn’t know why that one had bothered him so much, not with all the things he knew he _had_ done, but it was a relief all the same. “That’s something, I guess,” he said. “One less treasonous act on my record.”

“That’s one way of looking at,” said Fury, but he didn’t sound particularly impressed.

“You told Private Zhang that you were ‘ninety-nine per cent sure’ you weren’t responsible for President Kennedy’s assassination,” said Hill. “But we were under the impression that you had overcome the brain damage inflicted on you and recovered your memories. Is that not correct?”

Bucky chewed his lip. “Yes and no,” he said, carefully. “I remember everything from before, but some of the stuff in between is a bit hazy. They wiped me after every mission, and I reckon the details didn’t always get a chance to sink in.”

“I think,” said Fury, “that maybe we should start at the beginning.”

Bucky thought it over for a second, and then said, “I'm pretty sure it started when you lot sent me to goddamn Italy.”

—

Major Nicholls was not being particularly helpful.

“I need to talk to Director Fury,” Steve gritted out, for the third time.

“I’m sorry Captain, but like I said, that’s just not possible.”

“Fine,” said Steve. “I’ll go find him myself.” It had been at least an hour since Steve had last tried to stand up, after all. He was probably fine now.

“Well,” said the Major, delicately. “Unfortunately, you’re not cleared to leave this hospital room.” He was a particularly young Major, Steve thought, and he looked torn between exasperated and awe-struck.

“Excuse me?” said Steve.

“This guy kept going with four bullets in him,” said Sam. “I’m really not sure you want to be the one who has to try and stop him.”

Major Nicholls looked like he was considering how his men would respond to an order to subdue Captain America. Not well, Steve gathered from his expression.

“How about a compromise?” Nicholls asked. “I’ll pass on a message to Fury on your behalf.”

Steve didn’t want to give a message to someone who might or might not pass it on. He wanted to talk to Fury himself, because if he could just talk to him, then he could be make him understand, and Bucky would be free. But Natasha was watching him from the corner of the room, stony-faced, and Steve reminded himself that if he stormed out of here he might just make things worse, and put her in an awkward position besides.

“I guess that will have to do,” he said. “It's about Jimmy Binns. The guy who brought me in.”

Sam looked up from beside Steve’s bed, looking startled. “Jimmy _who_?”

“Binns,” said Steve. He looked Nicholls in the eye. “I need you to tell Fury that he's a good man and he saved my life. He’s not who Fury thinks he is, but I can explain. Tell him I'll vouch for him.”

“Oh hell no,” said Sam.

“What?” said Steve. “You said I should send a message.”

“Oh, not that,” said Sam, pulling out his phone. “You vouch away, Cap.”

“Okay,” said Steve, confused.

“Right,” said Major Nicholls. “Good man, life-saver, Captain America prepared to vouch for him. Anything else?”

“That’ll do for now,” said Steve. “But there'll certainly be more if I don't hear from him soon.”

“Of course,” said Nicholls, with just a hint of sarcasm, and he turned on his heel and left.

Sam was still staring at his phone. “Oh _hell_ no,” he said again.

“What?” said Steve. He craned his head to try and see what Sam was looking at. “Why are you looking at pictures of me in London in 1943?”

“Steve, anyone ever tell you it's not all about you?” Sam said, tucking his phone out of sight and reaching for his crutches. “I think I better have a word with Nicholls myself.”

—

Bucky sat in the tiny airless interrogation room and answered SHIELD’s questions for seven hours. It wasn’t fun. The things they were asking about were mostly things he usually tried not to think about, and he could feel himself slipping into emotional detachment, into rote, dispassionate answers; soldat, mission report!  

Halfway through someone came in with a plate of sandwiches. Bucky tried to remember when he’d last eaten and came up with only a vague recollection of Natasha pushing a candy bar from the hospital vending machine into his hands. He suddenly realised he was ravenous. The bread was dry and the ham and cheese uninspiring, but it was food, and that had never been a feature of the Winter Soldier’s debriefs. He ate his full, and it made him feel human enough to carry on.

Of course, Bucky had done plenty of briefings before the Winter Soldier. When he’d been a green recruit he’d stumbled through his field reports, nervous and full of deference for his superior officers. As he got more confident his natural cockiness had started to shine through, then Steve had showed up, and that was it; game over. It was impossible to be appropriately deferential when your CO was the boy you’d grown up beside; when you’d witnessed his every humiliation and every triumph since the age of five. And that wasn’t even accounting for the fact that Steve was more than willing to suck his cock when no one else was around. Most of the Howling Commandos mission briefings had involved Steve unveiling some scheme that would almost certainly get them all killed and Bucky telling him not to be a fucking idiot, and then a heated debate, until together they’d come up with a plan that had at least a thirty per cent chance of survival.

Bucky tried to hold onto this version of himself as he talked to Fury about all the worst things he’d done, and it helped. There was a time when he’d lost all sight of who he was and what he believed in, but there was also a time when he’d questioned orders, when he’d sought his own survival, and Steve’s, when he’d had his own thoughts and feelings. When he remembered that, he could remember that he was more than the Winter Soldier, even if that was what mattered most now. He was here, after all, to atone for his actions, and that was something the Soldier would never have done.

Bucky had just finished telling Fury about Colombia in 1976, when Fury looked at his watch. “Okay,” he said. “I think that’s enough now, Sergeant.”

“Sorry?” said Bucky, confused. “Enough?”

“For now,” said Fury. “I imagine we’ll have follow up questions, but the psychologist supervising this interview told me to stop about two hours ago, so I think we better let you go.”

“Let me go? Let me go where?”

“Wherever you want,” said Fury. “Home, I imagine.”

“But,” said Bucky, baffled. People like him didn’t get to go home. “But I’m a traitor. I killed all those people.”

“What you are,” said Fury, “is a recovered prisoner of war.” His voice was dispassionate, as if he was pronouncing a fact, not an absolution. “Your service record has been updated to reflect this, and you are entitled to back pay and the services of the VA, which—” he looked down at his papers “—I’m told you have already been availing yourself of. I’m sure you will understand, however, that your record is now classified as top secret.”

Bucky waved this away. “But I’m dangerous,” he said. “I thought you were going to lock me up and throw away the key. Or worse.”

Fury raised his eyebrows. “The United States government does not consider you to be a threat at this time,” he said.

Bucky gawped. “But I _killed all those people_ ,” he said.

Fury sighed. “Sergeant,” he said. “Have you killed anyone at all since the Berlin wall came down?”

Bucky shifted awkwardly in his seat. “A few hydra goons.”

“Anyone who _wasn’t_ a threat to national security?”

“I guess not,” said Bucky, reluctantly.

Fury looked at Hill. “Maria, how many character references have we collected for Sergeant Barnes?”

“Eighteen,” said Hill. “Natasha Romanov, of course; she gave her view at her own debrief yesterday. Sam Wilson, who revealed that he’s known Sergeant Barnes for a number of years through his work at the VA, and considers him to be extremely committed to his own recovery and that of others. A Grace McKinley—”

“Gracie?” interjected Bucky. Gracie was his next-door-neighbour, an elderly woman who paid Bucky in burnt gingerbread to carry her groceries up the stairs. “She’s batty, almost as old as I am.”

Hill ignored him, continuing to tick off the names of almost everyone Bucky had known over the last ten years. “...And Omar Jones, a Hollywood actor,” she finished. “Oh, and Steve Rogers has sent over no fewer than sixteen messages of support for Sergeant Barnes in the last twelve hours.”

“Sixteen?” said Fury, voice weary with a fatigue Bucky recognised from years of watching people come up against Steve.

“Yes sir,” said Hill. “Unfortunately nine of these display more than moderate insubordination towards you as his superior, while the last three could be interpreted as outright threats to the United States government, and besides, we don’t accept romantic partners as character witnesses. But the first four do raise a number of reasonable points.” She tilted her head. “And he is Captain America. So, you know. There’s that.”

“Right,” said Fury. He looked at Bucky. “So, like I said, we do not currently consider you a threat. We’ll undoubtedly want to talk to you again, but for now, you’re free to go.”

Bucky stared at him, unable to believe it.

“If you want us to lock you up, we can probably arrange it,” said Fury. “But if I was you, I’d get out of here sharpish, as I understand the Captain is scheduled to be discharged from hospital in—” he glanced at his watch “—just over an hour.”

Bucky decided he didn’t need to be told twice.

—

When Natasha pushed Steve's wheelchair out the front door of the hospital, Bucky was standing in the sunshine waiting for him.

“Sergeant Barnes!” said an excited voice behind Steve. “I knew you’d get out!” It was one of the guards Fury had stuck Steve with. He felt a surge of irritation taint his relief at seeing Bucky again. Of course Bucky had already managed to charm all Fury’s guys.

“Of course I did, Kevin,” said Bucky with a wide smile. “Heard my best guy was getting out of hospital, and I couldn't miss it.” He turned his smile on Steve. “Hey pal,” he said.

Steve pursed his lips, unimpressed. “I'm still mad at you,” he said.

“Noted.”

“I'm more mad, if possible. You left. Again.”

Bucky raised his hands skywards. “See, Kevin? I told you Captain America was a pain in the ass.”

“Fuck you,” said Steve, and then he launched himself at Bucky.

Bucky caught him, steady as ever. “Jesus, Steve,” he said, laughing. “You'll rip your stitches.”

“Don't care,” said Steve, mumbling into Bucky’s neck. “You’re the pain in the ass.”

“I know,” said Bucky, nodding. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” said Steve. He clung onto Bucky’s neck, breathing him in. He was here, he was real, this wasn’t some dream Steve’s brain had cooked up to torture him. “You turned yourself in?” he said, after a moment.

“Yep,” said Bucky. “What, you don't approve? I thought you were supposed to be all about honesty.”

Steve scowled, but he didn't say what he was thinking, which was that when it came to Bucky, his moral compass pointed firmly in the direction of whatever kept Bucky by his side. Steve would lie for days rather than lose Bucky again; worse probably, and if that made him a hypocrite then so be it. He gripped his arms tighter around Bucky. “But you came back,” he said.

“Well yeah,” said Bucky. “This is kinda awkward, what with all the hugging, but I mainly came back to see if Natasha would give me a ride home.”

Steve pulled away slightly, so he could see Bucky’s face. Bucky was smirking. “What?” he said innocently. “Flying commercial’s a pain in the ass with the metal arm.”

Steve hit him.

“Yeah,” said Bucky. “That arm. The one you just punched. It hurt, didn’t it?” He was laughing, but his hand was still firm on Steve’s back, carefully holding him up.

“Natasha,” Steve said. “Tell him he can walk home.”

“Take a hike, Barnes,” said Natasha.

Steve turned to look at her. She was standing five feet behind them, looking faintly amused. Next to her was Kevin, looking confused, and next to him was Sam, who was looking at Bucky and shaking his head.

“Hey Sam,” said Bucky, sounding sheepish.

Sam pointed an accusatory finger at Bucky. “You,” he said. He shook his head again, as if he didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m sorry,” said Bucky. “Steve’s already told me lying is bad, but to be fair, I only think I actually lied to you about a couple of things. The rest were more sins of omission.”

Sam was still struggling for words. “I can’t believe,” he said, finally. “I can’t believe I had Bucky Barnes in my group therapy for _years_ and I didn’t even realise.”

“Wait,” said Steve. “What?”

—

Steve fell asleep on the flight home, a peaceful expression on his face that made Bucky smile.

Bucky left him to it and slipped into the cockpit with Natasha.

“Barnes,” she said, nodding at him.

“You can call me Bucky, you know,” he said.

“I can’t,” she said. “That’s a ridiculous name.”

Bucky laughed. It was a ridiculous name; he still liked it better than Jimmy. “Okay. Barnes is fine too,” he said.

They sat in silence for a while, Bucky staring out the cockpit window at the stars. Eventually Natasha cleared her throat. “I hope you’re not planning on leaving him again,” she said.

“Nah,” said Bucky. “Not if he doesn’t want me to. I’ve given up. He’s too hard to shake off.”

“Good,” said Natasha, and they were quiet for the rest of the flight.

—

Steve woke up to Bucky hovering above him. “Hey Stevie,” he said. “We’ve landed.”

“We’re home?” said Steve, groggily.

“Yeah, buddy. Home sweet home. Listen, I gotta head back to my place. Check on Philippa, see what those SHIELD goons have done to my kitchen. But I’ll come visit you first thing tomorrow, okay?”

“Who’s Philippa?” said Steve. He sat up, blinking, still feeling half-asleep.

“My cat,” said Bucky. “She’s not really mine, to be fair, she just is. But she’s gonna be pissed at me, if she’s still around.”

“I told the guy who was guarding your apartment to feed her,” said Steve.

“Of course you did,” said Bucky, smiling.

“I want to come with you,” said Steve.

“Steve, you can’t be traipsing around town with me. Docs say you need at least two more days of bed rest.”

Steve scowled. He was _fine_. “No, I mean. Can’t I rest at yours? I like it there better than my place.”

Bucky shot a look at Sam. He shrugged. “Hey, we’ve never had much luck keeping him on bed rest before. Might be easier if he’s where he wants to be.”

Bucky pulled a disappointed face at Steve. “Stevie, how many times have we talked about staying in bed when you’re sick?”

“Too many times,” said Steve. “Boring.”

“Fine,” said Bucky. “You can come to mine, but if you so much as _sit up_ without help I will send you back to the hospital.”

Steve grinned.

Bucky had to carry him up the stairs to his apartment, grumbling the whole way. “Goddammit Steve, next time you sign up to be a science experiment, think of my back won’t ya? This was a lot easier when you were small.”

“You don’t have to carry me,” Steve pointed out. “I can walk.”

“You can walk when you’ve got less bullet holes than there are flights of stairs,” said Bucky grimly, and he kept going.

“You let me walk twelve miles when I got shot in France that time,” said Steve.

“I didn’t let you. I never _let_ you do anything. You just do it,” said Bucky. “And unfortunately in that case there weren’t a lot of alternatives.”

They reached the top. Bucky somehow managed to get the door open without putting Steve down. The SHIELD agent was gone, but Bucky’s kitchen window was fixed and his plants looked healthy enough.

“Bed or couch?” Bucky asked.

“Couch,” said Steve. He wanted to keep Bucky in sight.

Bucky set him down on the couch, and then started flipping through the neat pile of mail on the kitchen table. “Oh,” he said, sounding surprised. “I’ve been invited to a wedding.”

“That’s nice,” said Steve, sleepily. The problem with super-healing was that it really did take a lot of energy. He dozed off, feeling cosy and relaxed in a way he couldn’t remember feeling in a long time.

When Steve woke up again it was raining outside, and the cat was curled up next to him. When Steve stirred she opened her eyes briefly to glare at him, a look that clearly said ‘move and I’ll scratch you’. He could hear Bucky pottering about in the kitchen, humming softly, and the gentle sound of the rain hitting the windows. He reached out a cautious hand to pet Philippa. She cracked open her eyes again, suspicious, but seemed to decide Steve was all right. After a moment she even started to purr, a low thrumming sound that was not unlike Steve’s motorbike.

“Why Philippa?” Steve asked. He didn’t know any Philippas. It seemed like an odd choice for a cat.

Bucky looked up from the toast he was buttering. “Well, it was Phillips,” he said. “But then the vet told me she was a girl.”

“As in the Colonel?” Steve said. “You’re terrible.”

“Just trying to honour an American hero, Stevie,” said Bucky. He set down the toast and a bowl of soup on the coffee table next to Steve. “Eat.”

Steve ate. Bucky sat in an armchair, the coffee table between them, and turned on the tv. They watched an episode of the cartoon with the unpleasant yellow family, and Bucky laughed at jokes Steve didn’t understand. They didn’t talk, but that was fine. Steve didn’t have anything to say. He was happy just watching Bucky.

Except when the show was over and Steve had finished his food, Bucky turned off the tv and turned to look at Steve.

“So,” he said. “Are we going to talk about any of it?”

“Any of what?” said Steve. “Oh don't tell me you've turned into one of these — what do you call them? Millennials, always talking about feelings.”

“Steve,” said Bucky. “You were pretty mad, back there. In the hospital.”

“So were you,” said Steve.

Bucky shrugged. “You're pretty infuriating.”

“So are you!”

“Steve.”

“I just — I read your file,” said Steve.

“I know,” said Bucky. “I’m glad, saves me having to tell you any of it.” Then he ruffled the back of his head awkwardly. “If you’ve changed your mind and you don't want to be here that's fine, I'll get you a cab or whatever.”

“What?” said Steve.

“If you don't want to be around the Winter Soldier I won't blame you. You don't owe me anything.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky shrugged. Steve sighed. He had been mad when he’d found out that Bucky had lied to him, but it had been worse when he thought Bucky might not come back. He’d been hoping they could just keep going, move on, and he wouldn’t have to confess to any of the selfish feelings swirling inside of him. But it seemed like Bucky was right. They did have to talk.

“I don’t care that you were the Winter Soldier,” said Steve. “Well, I _do_ , I was furious when I read that report. Not at you, at them. Made me sick.” He swallowed. “But when I you told me you remembered, I forgot all about it. I was so mad at you. I just… I feel guilty. Everything you went through and all I could think about was that I spent eighteen months thinking you were dead.”

“Oh Christ,” said Bucky. “What fucking use is that?”

Steve just blinked at him, confused.

“I mean, Jesus, Steve. Yeah, my second half of the twentieth century was a lot worse than yours. Guess what? I'm glad. I am glad that you did not have to go through that with me. I'm glad you got sleep through it all and wake up the same idealistic sop you've always been.”

“Hey,” said Steve.

“You feeling guilty about it doesn't make it better. So don't waste your time. _Our_ time.”

“I don't think that's how feelings work,” Steve said slowly. “I mean, I'm not the expert you've clearly become, but I don't think you get to just turn them off.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “You were mad at me, Steve. Stop feeling guilty and tell me about it.”

“Of course I was mad!” Steve said. “You knew I was alive all that time and you didn’t even try to reach me.” Steve couldn't imagine a world where he’d known Bucky was alive and hadn’t done everything he could to get to him. “Didn't you miss me?” he said, his voice suddenly small.

“Oh Jesus, Stevie, of course I did,” Bucky said. “Like there was a hole inside of me. It took me years to figure myself out after I stopped being the Winter Soldier, I was so lost. I’d never been me without you before, you know?”

Steve nodded. He knew; he’d felt the same way after he woke up.

“I missed you like nothing else,” said Bucky, and Steve could tell by the look on his face that Bucky meant it, but he still didn’t understand.

“Then why didn’t you come find me?”

Bucky sighed. “It seemed like there were a lot of good reasons not to. And I thought I’d been missing you for so long that I could just keep going. But then of course you showed up, and wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Steve was annoyed again. Of course he hadn’t left Bucky alone. You didn’t find someone you thought you’d lost and then leave them alone. That wasn’t normal.

Steve opened his mouth to say as much, but Bucky stopped him. “There _were_ a lot of good reasons not to, Steve. I was trying to keep a low profile, and you’re terrible at that. I didn’t want to find out what would happen if the government found me. But also… I didn’t know how to tell you about how I’d survived. I told myself that I didn’t deserve you.”

Steve frowned. “Don’t I get to decide that?”

“Yeah,” said Bucky, rubbing his face. “Really, I was scared, pal, that’s what it came down to.”

“Of me?”

“Of letting you down. Of letting you know what a fuck up I’d become.”

“Sam said you were ‘surprisingly well-adjusted’.”

Bucky snorted. “Sam’s paid to say that shit.”

“I suppose,” said Steve. “But it seems like you’re doing alright. Look at this place.” He gestured around Bucky’s apartment. “You built yourself a new life. I’m the one who’s been hiding in Tony’s tower for the last eighteen months and only coming out to fight aliens.”

Bucky scowled. “I noticed,” he said.

Steve thought it was a bit unfair that he had to talk about his feelings but Bucky just got to keep quietly seething about every risky thing Steve had ever done. “I don’t regret fighting the aliens,” he said. “People’s lives were in danger. I was given a gift, Buck, and with it comes a responsibility to help people.”

Bucky’s face darkened. Steve sighed. He swung his legs down from the couch, so he was sitting up properly, not just propped against the mass of pillows Bucky had collected for him.

“Steve,” said Bucky. “What are you doing?”

“Come here,” said Steve impatiently, gesturing to the couch cushion next to him. He didn’t want to keep having this conversation with Bucky sitting as far away from him as possible.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he got up and sat down next to Steve. Steve leaned into him and took his hand, closing his eyes, just for a second. Then he said, “I don’t regret fighting the aliens, but maybe I could have looked after myself better in other ways.”

Bucky ran his fingers over the lines in Steve’s palm, almost absent-mindedly. “Yeah,” he said. “It was pretty wack, Stevie.”

Steve let out a startled laugh, tension giving way to surprise. “Wack?” he said. “What the hell is wack?”

Bucky jostled Steve, giving him the gentlest of shoves. “Look, buddy, while you were busy impersonating an icicle I managed to pick up some new slang, okay?”

Steve couldn’t stop laughing now he’d started. “Wack,” he gasped.

Bucky pushed him again. Steve shoved him back, still grinning, and a tussle ensued. It didn’t hurt; Bucky had spent most of their friendship twice Steve’s size, and he was an expert at faux-roughhousing where he still managed to treat Steve like he was made of glass. Before Steve knew it, Bucky was hovering above him, pinning him in place. “Hey, it’s called ‘engaging with the world’,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I’m so well-adjusted, huh?”

“Sure,” said Steve. He was distracted now, Bucky’s face close.

Bucky bit his lip. “Hey Stevie,” he said.

“Mmm?”

“That thing you said. About just wanting to be friends?” Bucky was staring at Steve’s lips now. “That only applied when I was Jimmy, right?”

“You’re an idiot,” said Steve and he surged upwards, their lips meeting. It was even better than that time on the fire escape, because this time Steve knew without a doubt that it was the real thing. But after only a moment, Bucky broke away.

“Jesus,” he said.

“You keep saying that,” said Steve. “What would your ma think, huh?”

Bucky laughed weakly. “Steve,” he said. “We need to finish our conversation.”

“I thought we were done.”

Bucky pulled back, sitting upright and putting half an empty couch between them. “I’m not Jimmy,” he said. “And I’m not the Winter Soldier, not any more.  But I’m also not…” He paused, like he was searching for the right words. “You’ve got this idea of me in your head. Bucky Barnes, easy-going, full of charm. Good with the ladies. That’s not me, not anymore.”

Steve glared at him, annoyed. Bucky’d interrupted a perfect kiss for that? “Buck,” he said. “I know.”

Bucky frowned.

“You haven’t been that person since 1942,” Steve said. “If you ever really were.” Bucky had already started to harden long before he became the Winter Soldier. When Steve had waved him off at the docks they'd both been kids still, though they hadn't known it then. By the time he'd caught up with Bucky at Azzano Bucky had managed to shed the last of his baby fat and most of his optimism; it had bothered Steve, of course it had, but it hadn't made him like Bucky any less. “You were never as carefree as you pretended to be, anyway.”

Bucky shrugged; he didn’t deny it.

“The war changed both of us plenty. I’m not expecting you to be the hero Sam learnt about in his history class, or the nice young man all Brooklyn was in love with. I know you, Bucky Barnes, and you were always more than that.”

“Oh,” said Bucky, quietly.

“Those aren’t the things that matter,” said Steve. “Not to me.”

“And the things that do?” said Bucky. “You reckon they’re all still here?”

Steve thought about the way Bucky had been there to save his life, the way Bucky got mad when Steve did anything stupid or dangerous. The way Bucky hummed to himself, the way he tapped his foot when a familiar song came on the radio. The way he was clearly still vain as a peacock, even if modern fashion was beyond Steve’s comprehension. The way he was still the one person Steve could rely on to tell him when he needed to get his head out of his ass.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Yeah, I do.”

Bucky closed his eyes. “Sorry, it’s just... I didn’t remember everything straight away,” he said. “I had to put back together slowly. And sometimes I get this fear that I put it together wrong.”

Steve shook his head. “When I first saw you I thought it was a hallucination, or wishful thinking. Or maybe some kind of conspiracy. But the more time I spent with you the more certain I was that it could only be you.”

Bucky smiled, a slow, relieved sort of smile.

“Besides,” said Steve, “I used to be pretty jealous of the ladies, to be honest, so I won’t be sad if you’ve finally stopped being such a cad.”

“Well,” said Bucky, a cocky grin breaking on his face. “I still have some moves.” Then he grimaced. “All those girls. Jesus, you’re right, Steve, I wasn’t perfect back then either.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Steve. He’d always thought the real Bucky was better than the stories or the rumours. “And it was the way things were. I never blamed you. I was happy with whatever you could give me.” It sounded pathetic now, but it was true. Steve cared about Bucky too much to ask him to sacrifice his chance at a family and a normal life for his own sickly self.

“I was a coward,” said Bucky. “But I hope you knew I loved you.”

“Yeah, Buck,” said Steve. “I knew.”

“Thank Christ,” said Bucky. He leaned forward and kissed Steve again, gently this time. “We should get you to bed.”

Steve grinned.

“So you can get a decent night’s sleep Steve, Jesus.”

“Fine,” said Steve, petulantly. “But only if you come too.”

“I can’t believe they used to think I was a bad influence on _you_ ,” said Bucky. “Always trying to lead me into sin.”

“Nah-uh,” said Steve. “You seduced me. You twirled me round our kitchen just like you twirled all those girls and I was powerless before your wicked charms.”

“I thought you just said my charm was greatly exaggerated.”

“Well,” said Steve, considering. “There was probably _some_ truth to the rumours.”

“Whatever,” said Bucky, gathering Steve into his arms and lifting him off the couch. “But you’re in luck, I only got the one bed.”

“Just like old times,” said Steve, with a sleepy smile.

Bucky carried him through to the bedroom. It was unnecessary, but Steve couldn’t be bothered arguing about it. On the wall opposite the bed was a picture of Steve, a old hand-drawn one he recognised as his own work. “That wasn’t there before,” he said, frowning.

“Yeah, I might have hidden a few things last time you came round,” said Bucky. “I put it all back while you were napping.”

“Where did you get it?” said Steve. He’d been told all his old things had ended up in the Smithsonian, including his sketchbooks. Everything except a handful of items that had been taken in a break-in in 2005. “Bucky!” he said, realizing what that meant. “Did you steal from a national museum?”

“Can’t steal what’s yours,” reasoned Bucky, plumping Steve’s pillow. “I didn’t take anything that didn’t belong to me.”

“I don’t remember ever giving you a picture of me.” The drawing wasn’t especially attractive; it showed Steve just as he had been, pale and weedy. The fact that Bucky might want it would never have crossed his mind.

“Okay,” conceded Bucky. “I stole the picture. Everything else was mine though.”

Steve pouted reproachfully, but Bucky just swooped in and gave him a kiss. “Jealous?” he asked. “We can go back for your stuff too, if you want. They had that tooth you lost in that fight with Francis Connelly, which honestly I thought was pretty gross. I thought it was gross when _you_ kept it, but putting it in a museum just seems unsanitary. And they had that hideous vase you used for all your still lifes.”

“Your sister made that for me,” said Steve.

“Yeah,” said Bucky. “And let’s just say the Barnes family wasn’t known for our creative talents.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Just get into bed,” he said.

Bucky did just that, crawling in beside Steve and curling around him in a way he hadn’t been able to do since Steve was small. Steve had realised that Bucky was stronger than he used to be; of course he had, Bucky had been carrying him around all day. But some part of his brain was still so unused to the idea of being bigger than Bucky that he hadn’t registered the extent to which they’d evened out. It was a surprising relief. After Steve had got the serum they hadn’t fit together quite the same way they used to. They’d figured it out, found new alignments which had been nice enough, in their own way, but there was something about this, about being cocooned in Bucky’s arms, which Steve had missed.

“I loved you too, Buck,” he murmured. “Still do. Thought you probably knew. But I wanted to say it anyway.”

“Go to sleep,” said Bucky, and Steve did just that.

—

Steve came back to Bucky’s and then never left. Bucky came home from work and Steve was there, watching a Disney movie with an deeply intent expression, like was a murder mystery, not a film for eight year olds; or standing in the kitchen in his tiny running shorts, sculling Bucky’s milk. When Bucky woke up he woke up sweltering because Steve ran like a furnace these days, but he still curled into Bucky like he might catch his death of cold if he didn’t.

Occasionally, Bucky woke up to an empty bed and he’d think the whole thing had been a dream, or that Steve had finally decided Bucky wasn’t really the man he’d loved and had left. But then he’d smell smoke and realise Steve had just gotten bored of waiting for Bucky to wake up, and had started on breakfast himself.

There was an easel in the corner of Bucky’s living room, and Natasha kept coming over uninvited and eating all his ice cream. His cat got fat because Steve was a soft touch and kept topping up her bowl; his record collection was all out of order. A ficus Bucky didn’t buy appeared next to the basil and the mint, and a sketch of Bucky napping got tacked to the fridge, between Alicia’s wedding invitation and Leon’s more avant-garde portrait.

Bucky’s life as Jimmy hadn’t been a bad one. It had been far better than he’d expected, or really thought he’d deserved. It had certainly been quieter. But it had been missing something important; it had been missing Steve. And now it wasn’t.

Of course, Steve was still just as pig-headed as ever. So there were squabbles, issues to work through. Steve was on a break from Avengering, apparently, but Bucky knew Steve would never be able to say no if they really needed him, and it was only a matter of time before they did. Bucky didn’t want to fight; as far as he was concerned the world could burn as long as Steve was safe, but Steve wasn’t ready to put down the shield, and he’d never be safe while he was Captain America. Bucky didn’t want to fight, but he didn’t know if he could let Steve fight alone.

But then, Bucky had spent most of his life trying to get Steve to walk away from a fight; that was, in Bucky’s view, part and parcel of having Steve around. Maybe one day he’d manage it; maybe not. It was just like old times, really. Except warmer, and with better food. And less dames.

In the fall, Bucky took Steve to Alicia’s wedding. Bucky hadn’t been to a wedding since he was young and whole and it was… sweet, even if he didn’t trust the groom as far as he could throw him. Although that was unfair, perhaps; Bucky could probably throw the guy pretty far. Alicia looked happy though, so instead of throwing her new husband anywhere, Bucky settled for just fixing him with his most menacing expression when he shook his hand at the reception, and, once satisfied that the guy at least knew who he’d have to answer to if he fucked this up, Bucky let himself enjoy the party.

It was a pretty good party, even if it was a little bit more extravagant than what Bucky was used to for a wedding. The food was good, and there was dancing. The dancing wasn’t what Bucky was used to either, the steps nothing like those he spent so many nights perfecting down at the dancehalls.  He watched the sea of couples jealously for a while, unable to remember the last time he’d danced, before deciding there wasn’t any reason why he couldn’t join in, and, because this was the twenty-first century, no reason why he couldn’t drag Steve out there with him. They’d figure out the steps, if there were any.

“Come on, Steve, it's a slow one, all you gotta do is hold on to me and shuffle on the spot,” Bucky said, holding out his hand for Steve to take.

He expected more of a fight, but Steve just smiled and took it, following him onto the dance floor. It wasn’t really dancing, not by Bucky’s reckoning; more sort of sedately moving in circles, but he got to hold Steve close, in _public_ , and nobody was objecting. Besides, maybe if he got Steve loosened up, he could convince him to try something faster.

“Alicia’s a nice girl,” said Steve, as they swayed in time to the music. “She’s got some good stories about you.”

“Like what?” said Bucky, eyes narrowing.

“Something about a guy named Greg, and a whole lot of jalapenos?”

“Oh that,” said Bucky. “Honestly the jalapenos were a lot nicer than what I _wanted_ to do to him.”

“And yet every single one of Alicia’s aunts seems to adore you,” said Steve, sounding amused. “I can’t believe you tried to tell me you’d lost your knack for being charming.”

“I just complimented their frocks,” said Bucky. “When a lady goes to a lot of effort it’s nice to show you noticed.”

“They keep telling me what a nice young man I’ve got,” said Steve.

“Oh?” said Bucky, suddenly needing to focus very hard on where he was putting his feet.

They hadn’t talked about it, was the thing. Not really, not since that first night. Perhaps it had been too like old times; it had been too easy to slip into old habits; to spend every night in each other’s arms but not actually name it for what it was. Bucky didn’t even know if Steve knew all the things two men could be to each other in this brave new age, but he did know that there was a part of Steve still that thought Bucky might not want that; might prefer to find a girl and settle down. It was Bucky’s job to correct that, he knew, but it was hard. He still wasn’t sure he deserved Steve. He hadn’t been brave enough to have him back then, after all. But then, he hadn’t been brave enough to let him go either, and he still wasn’t.

He looked up. Steve was pink. He still blushed so easily, even after everything they’d been through. Bucky loved him so goddamn much. He’d had so many chances to give Steve up, and he’d failed every one. So maybe now it was time to try something different.

Bucky glanced over at where Alicia was dancing with her husband, beaming, then he took a deep breath and leant in, close to Steve’s good ear — they were both good now, but the left one was still the one Bucky preferred for secrets — and said, “You know we can do that now. Get married.”

Steve stilled. “That you asking, Buck?”

“No,” said Bucky. He felt Steve slump, almost imperceptibly. He leaned in close again. “Pretty sure it's rude to get engaged at someone else's wedding.”

Steve let out a huff of laughter, but his eyes looked slightly watery. “Fair enough,” he said.

Bucky spun him round. “You’ll just have to ask me tomorrow,” he said, grinning. He’d never felt so light.

Steve met his eye. “I love you,” he said.

“Pfft,” said Bucky. “Now who’s talking about his feelings like a millennial?”

“You just asked me to marry you!”

“No I didn’t,” said Bucky. “I just said that you could ask me. That’s different.”

They shuffled round in circles a few more times, and the song finished. Bucky leaned in to Steve’s good ear again. “Love you too, punk.”

Steve smiled wetly, but then a new song came on, a song Bucky knew very well, because it had been one of the top hits of 1940 and he’d danced to it every Saturday night for _months_ , and Steve’s expression turned sheepish. “What the hell?” said Bucky. “Did you do this?”

“I might have mentioned to Alicia that you knew how to Lindy Hop,” said Steve. “And that if she played some Glenn Miller you’d probably demonstrate.”

Bucky stared at him, speechless. The familiar rhythm was making his feet itch, but he hadn't danced in years, and besides, people didn’t do it like that anymore.

Steve bit his lip. “I just wanted to see you dance again,” he said. “Properly, I mean.”

Bucky’s heart stuttered. “Right then,” he said. “It’d be rude to disappoint the bride.” He grabbed Steve’s waist and pulled him close. “But if you think you’re watching from the sidelines you’re sorely mistaken.”

Steve grinned. “I’ll try to keep up.”

He didn’t do too badly, either. Bucky’d never been so goddamn proud.


End file.
